


Domestic Bliss

by Nymeria578



Series: Awakening [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Sex, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 91,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1896753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is faced with the inevitable truth that Mary is an assassin, and after reading her memory stick he calls the police. She goes to prison while John doesn’t actually know where he belongs now. When things start getting better for him, Mary confronts him with a truth about Sherlock that turns his life upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> I very dear Tumblr user recently pointed out how much I improved my writing skills which made me going back to my very first fic that I wrote in English… and I was appalled about my writing. Too many overused words, too many mistakes in regard to creative writing. Although I’m still learning, I decided to hitch up my knickers and started rewriting this fic. 
> 
> I will post my revised chapters and keep an update in this first note. So far, I have chapter 1 of 37.
> 
> Please note that the revised chapters are not beta’d, and since English isn’t my first language you might find some minor mistakes. Don’t feel shy to point them out to me in the comments.

John rummaged through his closet, idle hands turning over several pieces of clothes. Despair crawled up his spine as he tried to find something suitable for the day. With blank eyes, he once again stopped flipping over his trousers, staring into his jumbled wardrobe.

_It doesn’t make a difference anyway._ He sighed, listless about his upcoming court appearance.

Sherlock went to his hearing last week, and today John had to face his demons. Oddly enough, Sherlock, who had been shot, was more comfortable in dealing with Mary than John. It bereft him a small part of his faith in the detective. Did Sherlock forgive her? John didn’t. After the whole debacle with Magnussen, John felt empty, hollow inside. He searched his bleak emotions for hatred since she nearly killed his best friend, but instead he encountered rage born of bitterness. For the last couple of months, he mulled this over time and again because hate would have made things so much easier.

Careless hate might have helped him to just leave and forget her. But given the circumstance, how he met her and fell in love for her, hate lurked like a cold tickling beneath the surface. He could never forget how she stepped into his barren life after Sherlock’s pretended death, helped him to get back into society. What an irony it was now that Mary, who had saved him from his gloomy existence turned out to be the destroyer of such fallacious peace.

Although bitterness muddled his mind, suppressed his hate, he knew he would never forgive her shooting Sherlock.

And now charged with nine homicides and one attempted murder, Mary had to face her past at last. Yet, she refused to name her clients in court, and John barely recognized his wife in the deprecating taciturnity when the prosecutor asked about her murders. No. This wasn’t his wife anymore. Her emotionless eyes staring ahead, unflinching, as pictures and evidence expounded her skewed morality which caused him to question her authenticity in their relationship. Had it been love?

Sherlock discussed his deductions with John several months ago. “CAM. Remember? He already threatened her at your wedding.”

John took a defensive stance, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “So she murdered Magnussen and…” Sarcasm tinged his voice as he added, “Oh, wait… And while accomplishing her mission, she almost killed my best friend.”

“She’s an assassin who never fails to find her target,” Sherlock countered. Despite his usual sharpness, he kept his baritone soft. “She did this to protect you, but then we showed up in that office, and she got distracted with her plan.”

“Distracted?” John scoffed.

“What I want to say is,” Sherlock pointed his index finger to his forehead as if shooting a gun. “If she wanted to kill me, she simply could have done it.”

“Oh, that’s cheering me up?” John lounged in his red armchair, elbows propping on his knees and face digging into his palms to hide his tetchiness. Sherlock was supposed to die, removing an unwanted witness. Just because sentiment got the better of her, a decision made in a split-second, Mary hadn’t killed him with a headshot. According to Sherlock, she committed her crime out of love and to protect them. Although John grasped Mary’s motives, he doubted that Sherlock having difficulties in conceiving emotions indeed truly understood her purpose. He had to die, so Mr. and Mrs. Watson didn’t have their domestic bliss tainted.

No, he wouldn’t forgive Mary, especially not after browsing through the files of her murders. In the attempt to finish a job, she even once killed an innocent. All the other _victims_ had skeletons in their closet, too. When asking her during one of his rare visits in jail, she hadn’t even gainsaid her deeds. In fact, she confessed the murders, even in court. All she did was hide the identity of her clients as well as her own.

Shaking his head, John sighed, pushing thoughts of Mary from his mind as he chose a dark gray button-down shirt which matched his blue jeans. While fiddling with the tiny buttons, he heard Sherlock shout from downstairs. “The cab is waiting, John.”

John grunted in disapproval. He wanted to drive his own car, but Sherlock insisted on going by cab. In the fashion of Sherlock’s adamant logic, he had declared John as emotionally compromised and therefore susceptible to stress which might result in a car accident. Sometimes Sherlock could be very persuasive.

During their drive, John’s stomach tightened into knots and a lump constricted his throat. Sherlock kept quiet, looking at his mobile since he, albeit inadvertently, tended in such situations to hurt people with his sharp tongue.

John hadn’t seen his wife the last three months. The evidence of their relationship must be very obvious to everybody by now. Her estimated due date was in less than eight weeks, and the thought of her round belly made him fidget in his seat. Soon he would have a daughter and he was so not prepared. With Mary gone, how would he have been able to bond with his unborn child? The whole situation felt so surreal.

Beside him, Sherlock drew a sharp breath and huffed with annoyance. John’s nervousness made him tetchy. He shot his friend a glance from the corner of his eyes. “Sorry,” John mumbled, eyes roaming out the window to the overcast sky, gloomy and dense like John’s mood.

The day the police arrested Mary, the contents of the USB flash drive facilitated his decision to leave their house. He carried the damn thing around in his pocket for about two weeks while Mary was on the run. After a long struggle, John determined that he wanted to know, truly _know_ his wife.

For the sake of his emotional state, he couldn’t tell if that was a mistake or not.

Pallor crept into his face, drained the blood from his skin in horror once he finished reading the last file on the drive. Cold sweat beaded a light sheen on his neck before anger rose in his chest. His pulse drummed with a relentless rhythm in his ears as his breathing became quicker, nostrils flaring when a sudden angry jolt shot out his right arm to smash the laptop to the floor.

Rage overwhelmed him for being so blind, combusting in a wave of a destructive frenzy. He knocked the table over, sending it across the room before grabbing his wooden chair to let off steam by destroying his furniture. The chair snapped a leg as John flailed around, wiping out the fallacy of a home. He sent splintered wood and broken glass shards flying across the room, not caring whether he got injured or not. This house depicted a lie, wrapped in a delusion John didn’t want to acknowledge until now. In the end, he stood amidst a complete mess which was once his life. He huffed in a mix of disdain and derision, trying to even out his heavy panting.

After a moment, he took a steadying breath and nodded once, a quick jerk of his head before he grabbed his jacket and exited the house.

Sherlock had left all the decisions about Mary to John’s discretion. It seemed he regarded this whole debacle as a private matter, backing off since he had misjudged John’s feelings after him faking his death. Either way, with Sherlock still being in hospital due to his internal bleeding, the man could hardly do anything about it.

After departing from his house, John drove around aimlessly through the cobweb of London’s streets. He wanted to clear his mind but found himself at last in the parking lot of St. Bart’s.

The clock revealed the late evening hour. _Five past nine_. The visiting time was long over, but John ignored that little fact. _I’m a bloody doctor_.

He wound his way through the familiar labyrinth of the hospital’s corridors until he found his destination. After two short raps at the door, he entered without waiting for an answer.

“John,” Sherlock looked up from a newspaper, unfolded on his lap. Scrutinizing eyes took John to pieces. Obviously, the detective could tell at once that his friend read Mary’s data.

John stood in the hospital room, forlorn, flexing his dominant hand in a nervous fashion. “I just can’t stand it… living in that house.”

“What did the data say?” The newspaper rustled as Sherlock put it aside.

John looked at his friend in disbelief. _Does he really want to talk about the bloody content now?_ Sherlock’s mercurial eyes, however, were oblivious to John’s emotional state, genuine curiosity flashing in his gaze. John ignored Sherlock’s question. “I called the police, Lestrade.”

Sherlock’s too frequent inability of understanding emotions made the detective fretful. “Fine,” he retorted tersely. Irritation lurked beneath his surface, John observed, but he didn’t relent to Sherlock’s vanity of whether his deductions about Mary were right or wrong. At least not now. For a moment, silence draped over them as they locked eyes with each other before Sherlock pointed his finger to the room’s wardrobe. “Open the topmost zip of my suitcase and take it.”

“Take what?” John asked confused but followed Sherlock’s instruction anyway. He produced a key ring, the unmistakable key to 221B dangling from his pinched fingers. His brows knitted as he shot Sherlock a quizzical glance. He hadn’t planned on staying at their flat. If anything, he had considered about moving into a hotel for a few days.

“That’s why you are here, aren’t you?” Sherlock’s usually rich baritone turned into a hoarse whisper, still affected by his physical condition. Or betrayed it uncertainty?

John pursed his lips, not quite sure himself why he had indeed sought his friend. Sherlock wasn’t the friend to find solace in such a situation. Lestrade or Mike, yes. But not Sherlock.

“Come on,” Sherlock pressed with a hint of a smug smile. “Your room’s still vacant.”

John’s eyes drifted from Sherlock to the small metal in his hand. “All right. But just for a few days. Until this whole disaster stops pulling the rug out from under my feet.” John had no nerves to endure the air and graces of his former flatmate for too long. “By the way, when are you getting out?”

“With my personal doctor at home, giving me personal medical treatment, I’d say _now_.”


	2. Mary Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> A huge thanks goes to the lovely Maya for beta-reading this chapter.

The sudden stop of the cab startled John and brought him back to the present. Sherlock paid the cabbie, while John rubbed his stiff neck and stepped out of the car. _Just for a few days._ Somehow, they had grown accustomed to their former life very quickly again, and one day John’s stuff had found its way from his house to 221B Baker Street as well. It was like five years ago, when he had returned from war with post-traumatic stress disorder and moved in. In some odd way – which John couldn’t quite figure out – Sherlock had become his anchor, so he could face the truth regarding Mary.

His wife was caught very quickly by the Yard – with a little help from Sherlock, of course. And now she was charged with murder. Mycroft had told them that even the United States was interested in her and wanted her to be extradited. His wife likely wasn’t even European, John thought resentfully. Her origin remained a secret, too. Even Sherlock couldn’t find out. Mycroft had ensured John that he had no intention to deliver Mary to the States. Most certainly she would be sentenced to death there because five of the murders were performed abroad, so the crimes came within the provisions of the law of the United States of America. If that happened, John would not be able to forgive himself for being indirectly to blame for his wife’s death. And that was something he definitely couldn’t work out with a psychiatrist.

The cold, piercing wind of January made both men pull up their collars while they walked the few steps towards the court building. There were indeed two journalists waiting for them, and John swallowed hard not wanting to answer any questions. Of course Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson were still famous enough to make it to the front page; especially when the accused was Dr. Watson’s wife. That’s why he hadn’t made any entry on his blog since Sherlock was shot. Nevertheless, he had bought a new laptop after the dreadful demise of his old one. It hadn’t taken even two days for Sherlock to crack his password.

Ignoring the pressing questions of the reporters, they pushed past the wildly scribbling journalists into the building. Luckily, it was a private hearing without any onlooking from overly curious strangers. They climbed the marble stairs to the second floor, stomping remnants of snow off their shoes. At the end of the gallery was an open oak door, which led them into the room where Sherlock’s hearing had taken place last week. John’s eyes were fixed at the door but some meters in front of it, he stopped short so quickly that Sherlock almost bumped into the back of his friend.

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what frightened John more – to meet his wife or to meet his _pregnant_ wife. It wasn’t yet decided what would happen with that child, a girl, according to Mary’s doctor in charge. It was safe to assume that John would receive sole custody for his daughter, but then? Would he stay in 221B? He had sold his house. Would he buy another one to live with of what remained of his family? Sherlock put a reassuring hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing slightly. Most of the time, Sherlock avoided physical contact with everybody. It was simply too irritating. But words were redundant, so he gently pushed John into the court room, hoping to transfer the needed strength through the touch.

The actual hearing didn’t last even one hour, but for John it felt like eternity. Mary was brought into court at last and John’s eyes widened as she shoved her big round belly onto the stand. Sherlock, who still sat beside him, didn’t move a bit, his face expressionless. When John was asked for his sworn statement, he took his place in front of the court. He needed to answer questions about how he had met Mary Morstan, all things regarding their private life, and he was eventually faced with the question how he hadn’t observed anything. Clenching his jaw, he remembered Sherlock declaring that he often “saw with his eyes but failed to observe” on several other occasions. But this time, even the brainiac Sherlock Holmes failed to see the truth; that was at least some sort of satisfaction. So, John snapped at the prosecutor if he would be able to _see_ the tick at the nape of his neck. Mary flinched visibly at the comparison.

Finally, he was asked about the evening that Sherlock had been shot in Magnussen’s office. He hated to remember that day. Not only because Mary was involved in that scenario – at that time he actually didn’t know it was Mary – but because almost three years ago he had once witnessed Sherlock die. And, again, a badly wounded Sherlock lay on the floor, a dark red staining his clothes. His mind racing, and it was all he could do to focus on the first aid. When Sherlock had jumped from St. Bart’s roof, he wasn’t breathing, nor did he have a pulse, he was simply dead – even though he wasn’t. The smell of blood and sweat mingled with the picture of dark red splayed on the pavement had made him feel nauseated. But this time, Sherlock still breathed.

He needed to explain how he acquired the flash drive. Sherlock had staged a made-up scenario to have Mary confess her crime. John didn’t want to believe in Sherlock’s words, so the detective made his friend a part of the game. At first John had thought it was one of Sherlock’s cruel jokes but then reality struck him and pulled him out of his cozy life. His friend mentioned more than often that John was seeking danger, but did his adrenaline-seeking psyche really go that far?

His hearing ended with the explanation how he had called the Yard, leaving the flash drive in DI Lestrade’s hands. Mary’s eyes were downcast for almost the entire time, but every once in a while her eyes shot up, seeking John’s dark blue eyes. He had a haunted look, but it didn’t speak of hate. They would have a meeting with their attorneys next week, when the verdict was decided.

The result of this meeting was quite clear. John had filed for divorce and requested sole custody for their unborn child. She wouldn’t get in the way, he knew. They had discussed this matter three months ago, and Mary had agreed. Perhaps that was part of the reason he couldn’t truly hate her. He was even inclined to pay her a monthly visit with their daughter. It must be so hard for a parent to not see their child.

After they had left the court building, John savored the cool air, producing tiny misty clouds of breath while Sherlock hailed a cab. The car was overheated and John felt the heat creep up his face, reddening his ears and cheeks.

“Fancy a tea?”

“Hmm?” It took John a moment cease his brooding. Sherlock didn’t mean to drink tea at home but somewhere else. John gave it a thought, but he actually wasn’t sure what he wanted right now, so he shrugged. “Why not?”

Replying a question with a counter question mostly implied that a person actually didn’t like the original idea; Sherlock knew this. Nonetheless, he told the cabbie to change direction, and ten minutes later they were sitting in a restaurant, sipping their tea rather mutely.

Sherlock fumbled with his phone, not knowing what to do to cheer his friend up. To distract himself, he studied the people around them, deducing where they were from, where they were going. However, his mind always returned to his miserable friend, who certainly wished for comfort. _I’m a heartless bastard,_ he scolded himself, being annoyed with his awkward reaction to common emotions. He was much too afraid to say the wrong words and hurt John further. No, he had learnt from his mistake when he came back after his faked death. John was really upset, punching his face and almost breaking his nose.

“I think I’m not the best company for you right now.” John’s sudden approach made Sherlock almost jump from his seat.

_Odd, I was about to say just the same._

John took a shaky breath. “I know it’s difficult for you to handle a brooding _me.._.” He took the phone from Sherlock’s hand, skimming through his e-mails. “Look Sherlock, you’re staring the people down with your silent deductions as if you want to pounce on them.” A hint of a smile curled around John’s lip, he knew that Sherlock sometimes liked to intimidate people. “Pick a case”, he shoved the phone back to his friend. “And let me walk back home alone. I need some fresh air.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked incredulously between his phone and his friend. So John didn’t want comfort? He wanted to wallow in his own misery? Sherlock furled his brows, taking the phone and was indeed glad to find an acceptable case, although a small part of him didn’t want to leave John alone right now. Nonetheless, he rose from his seat a little too eagerly, grabbing his coat. “Later!” Then he strode right past John, just to come to an abrupt halt. “People tend to say some things even though they don’t mean them...”

“I mean it. Now go, catch a villain.”


	3. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies are leading to confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> A huge thanks goes to the lovely Maya for beta-reading this chapter.

John relished the silence on the long way back to 221B Baker Street. The cold winter air slowed his racing mind, so many memories swirling through his head, and for the first time since his life had changed so much, he truly could _think_ again. After Sherlock’s fake death it had been exactly the same. For several months he had visited his grave, wishing silently it had all been a trick. Deep inside, John knew Sherlock’s last words were lies; he hadn’t needed the Yard to clarify this. Thus, his death must also have been a lie. It was so confusing. Then, he had met Mary who pulled him out of his misery. And now that Mary had lived a lie with John, there he was, back again to three years ago, as if Sherlock had never been dead. Somehow, he liked it, living with his flatmate. It was rarely boring, even though Sherlock could be a drama queen every once in a while. John snorted a silent laugh. Once the east wind had cleared, the land would lie in the sunshine. Soon his daughter would be born.

Two hours later he climbed the stairs to meet Sherlock sprawled out onto the sofa, eyes closed. He had stripped off his coat and jacket, which meant he wasn’t going anywhere again on that day. He was thinking with his hands steepled under his chin, probably looking for something in his mind palace.

“So, you solved the case?” John put his wet shoes aside and left his jacket at the peg.

“Within two minutes.” Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, his voice full of disdain. “Boring case.”

Well, that was the time to leave Sherlock to his own devices, John knew. So he took his laptop from the table and flopped into his red armchair. Waiting for the programs to load, John was startled by Sherlock’s sudden movement. Sometimes his friend just lay there for hours brooding over something for it to end abruptly with an elegant swing of his long legs to stand up. This always reminded John of a cat. Only this time, Sherlock didn’t rise from the sofa. He faced John silently. From the corner of his eyes he could see that Sherlock was almost mimicking a fish by opening his mouth to speak up several times, but eventually thinking otherwise and closing it again.

“Okay. What is it?” John put the laptop aside and couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused by Sherlock’s behavior.

Sherlock’s look was serious with furled brows, and John could make out that his friend didn’t know how to explain what he wanted to say. “I’m sorry.”

 _Now that wasn’t what I expected._ John creased his forehead, not knowing what to make of it. “For what?”

Narrowing his eyes at John, Sherlock rubbed his hands on his knees. “Don’t people tend to say something like that in situations like yours?”

John noticed the edginess of his friend because Sherlock Holmes almost never apologized. It seemed that he didn’t know how to approach John to show concern. “No. Not really.” John needed to pull himself together not to chuckle. Sherlock wouldn’t most certainly speak with him for days then.

Grunting his annoyance, Sherlock finally stood up, pacing back and forth while John waited patiently for his friend to find the right words. “I’m sorry for…”, he waved his hand implying that he was thinking and that this was really difficult for him. “I’m sorry for not warning you about Mary.”

John’s brows shot up. That was definitely something unexpected. For a moment he was lost for words, too. Clearing his throat, he asked, “What exactly do you mean?” It sounded snappier than intended but it made Sherlock stop his pacing to meet John’s eyes.

“When I met her the first time the signs were all there.”

John remembered the night of his proposal, when Sherlock had risen from the dead. “How?” His mouth was dry all of the sudden and his voice hoarse.

“Body language, John.” Sherlock took two steps forward to lounge into his own armchair with a sigh. “Even I have to admit that it was really subtle. She’s done that for a very long time, being a professional.” His eyes wandered to the mantle for a moment not fixing anything particular, speaking absent-mindedly. “I think I was jealous.”

“Jealous?” John’s voice got an octave higher. _Since when did I start asking one-word questions?_

“Are you angry with me?” Sherlock took his eyes from the mantle. He was oblivious to John’s meaning behind the question.

“Yes.” At least John would have been spared all the suffering.

Sherlock’s mouth pressed into a thin line, realizing his mistake. “I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“You had better be!” John snapped.

“It was just… when I came back, I thought it could be like before my death. But then I heard that you’d moved out, having a girlfriend and all. And then you punched me, declining to work with me again. I was jealous because Mary had taken you from me. I felt like a fifth wheel.” Sherlock inhaled deeply. “Jealousy, John! I thought it had clouded my mind, that I was merely wishing for Mary to be a liar. That’s why I bit it back, because I wanted you to be happy.”

John looked up at his friend’s crestfallen face and immediately regretted his petulant comment. “I guess I forgive you.” Sometimes Sherlock could act like a machine, being completely emotionless and even hurt people close to him, but on rare occasions like this he proved otherwise. “It would have just saved a great deal of…” He paused, struggling for words. “Pain.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell to his intertwined fingers. He looked like a child who did something wrong. “I’m really sorry.”

 _Three times!_ “Now stop it. It’s getting weird.” He gave his friend a vague smile to imply that he forgave him. He couldn’t stand a fourth time without bursting into laughter because the man, who never apologized, was developing a quirk out of it.

Taking his laptop, John tried to divert himself with his blog, while Sherlock went over to the desk rummaging through several documents. _Jealousy? An odd choice of word_ , John thought. First, jealousy was a sentiment; Sherlock always spoke of emotions as a disadvantage. Second, being jealous of his best friend’s girlfriend would imply a far deeper sentiment for John with which he would feel comfortable with.

“You’re blogging again?” Sherlock’s voice broke him out of his contemplation.

“Yeah, it’s been a while. I thought I clean the page a bit up.”

“Do you want to write about my case today?”

“I thought it was boring.” John raised an eyebrow. He knew that Sherlock wanted to show off. A case solved within two minutes only fed his vanity. But John wouldn’t give in and couldn’t resist teasing his friend a little. “No. I’d rather choose ‘Sherlock Holmes’ failure in deduction due to _jealousy’_.”

Sherlock pouted. “No you won’t!”


	4. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary are finally talking again. But the subject is rather unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> A huge thanks goes to the lovely Maya for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

The week went by in a flash. John felt better; he even solved a case with Sherlock. He hadn’t done so in months. Even his work at the surgery didn’t feel so dull anymore. Sherlock tried his best to cheer his friend up which seemed to be quite an effort for the detective. He let John even watch telly without making annoying grunts and comments.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Sherlock asked in a caring undertone.

John put the divorce papers in his leather briefcase. Since when did Sherlock start to care for someone? Is he truly trying to change? _No_. When they were working on that case Sherlock was his old obnoxious self, hissing at everyone except John.

“Thank you, but I’m fine.” And he really was. The verdict was decided last Friday; Mary received a life sentence, and she wasn’t to be extradited to the States. It felt like a certain part of his life was wrapped up, and now he could finally focus on what would be ahead.

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, taking a sip of his morning tea. It was quite a view to see him actually eat and drink at the table, not engrossed in performing some weird experiment. He watched John over the rim of his cup intently, the newspaper ignored in front of him. John had put his shoes and coat on, the briefcase carried under his arm. He strode hastily into the kitchen, taking the mug from the table and drinking the rest of his coffee. “I really am.” He reassured Sherlock, who lowered his gaze at this remark. “And you?”

“Hmm?”

“What’re you going to do today?” John shot a glance down at the newspaper but already knew there were no decent cases for Sherlock Holmes today.

Sighing, Sherlock stretched his back a bit. “Trying not to smoke.”

For a second John actually considered taking his friend along to prison, so Sherlock wouldn’t give in to the temptation. He dismissed the thought at once. Lately Sherlock had gotten a little tense in regard to Mary and John’s relationship. A tense Sherlock would make John nervous. And today he needed a clear head. “Be strong!” He replied on his way out the door.

This time he drove with his own car, ignoring Sherlock’s objections. Since when was his friend tempted to have a cigarette? He needed to drive through half London to meet his wife with their attorneys in prison which gave him plenty of time to think about Sherlock’s somewhat odd recent behavior. The kitchen was almost always clean. If an experiment went wrong, he tidied up, which had never been the case before, either Mrs. Hudson or John had always been made to clear away the mess. He started to apologize; well at least to John – not only with words but with gestures, too. Once he even made coffee for his flatmate, although John wasn’t quite sure he should drink it, especially not after the incident in Baskerville.

He met his attorney in front of the prison. They were searched for anything illegal on the way in and were escorted to a small room with a table and four chairs. Because John had seen his heavily pregnant wife last week, it wasn’t too shocking this time around. John took the documents from his bag and handed them over to Mary and her attorney. “You might want to read this carefully and then sign it.”

His wife’s eyes were watery, and she seemed to lack sleep. John couldn’t stand to look at her for long. A slight pang of guilt struck him but then he reminded himself why she was in prison. He didn’t care for Charles Augustus Magnussen. Sherlock made it quite clear afterwards. Magnussen wanted to hold John and Mary in his hands, so he could get at Sherlock and thus Mycroft Holmes. But John cared for the innocent husband of the US-American politician, who was the reason the States wanted her to be extradited – both were murdered. And he cared for Sherlock. His heart was pounding in his throat every time when he thought what would have happened if Mary would have succeeded in killing his best friend. Nonetheless, this was the woman he fell in love with, which made it all the more difficult.

After reading the divorce papers as well as the documents regarding the custody of their unborn daughter, an audible scratching indicated Mary signing while John stood in front of the window looking at Sherlock’s battleground. The day was gloomy and tiny snowflakes had started to whimsically float to the ground.

“Have you already chosen a name?” Mary’s voice sounded hoarse.

Turning from the window, John looked at his now-ex-wife in surprise. “No.” He had contemplated girls’ names once or twice, but hadn’t found one he liked. At least his daughter should like her name, too, because she was going to wear it her whole life. “Sherlock insists to call her Sherley.” He grimaced.

“Heaven forbid!”

John nodded agreement. “Do you have a favorite?”

A hesitant smile played around Mary’s lips. “No.”

What a stupid question, anyway. Mary didn’t want to get too much involved with the baby. Giving the little nudge a name would make it only worse for her. And John wouldn’t want to name his daughter with a name chosen by his murderer ex-wife.

“How is he?”

“Hmm?”

“Sherlock?”

John realized that it was genuine interest. Mary was probably concerned that she had inflicted a permanent damage with her shot. “He’s fine. It took him less than two months for recovery.” John explained and could see Mary’s relief. “It probably took Janine longer to recover from her heart being broken.” He added, mumbling, and remembered those nasty news articles. Well, at least she got her vengeance and a nice cottage.

“What do you mean?” Mary asked surprised.

“Didn’t she tell you?” But then John recognized that Janine and Mary most certainly weren’t such good friends. After all, Mary as well as Sherlock had used her to get near Magnussen. “Your chief bridesmaid had a fling with Sherlock and he broke off with her.” Well, that wasn’t the whole truth but Mary could draw her own conclusion.

“With Janine?

“Yep.” And then he remembered the awkward situation of having dinner together in a double date.

“But he’s gay.”

It took John a few seconds to process Mary’s words. “Wha…”

“Ah, I see. He used her to get to Magnussen’s office. That’s how you came in.”

“Gay?” John repeated the word which he often used to explain to people that he and Sherlock weren’t a couple.

“Yeah. It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” Mary looked slightly uneasy at their attorneys who were somehow eavesdropping but John was too much in shock than to notice the fidgeting in their seats.

Remembering some conversations, he always had the feeling that his best friend wasn’t interested in any relationship at all. He had it said himself, being married to his work. But then, he hadn’t denied being interested in men at Angelos’s at well.

Addressing their uncomfortable audience, Mary asked, “Would you be so kind as to leave us alone for a few minutes?”

Their attorneys exchanged uncertain glances, but eventually happily obliged. John was still deep in his thoughts when the door was closed. All those years, that he had known Sherlock now, his friend never had a relationship; neither with women nor men. Janine was an exception but also a nasty game by Sherlock. John had never believed the articles; they were just too much out of Sherlock’s manners. _Irene Adler could have had a chance, if she wouldn’t have been killed_. But then, Sherlock had never texted her back.

“Will you really stay at 221B, John?” Mary asked concerned.

John looked at her in disbelief. “Since when’re you having problems with homosexuals?”

“Oh no, you’re jumping to the wrong conclusion.” Mary raised her hands defensively. “First, your flat is too small once the baby is there.”

“Mrs. Hudson has the room downstairs refurbished, so there’s plenty of room.” Not to mention that Mrs. Hudson also volunteered as a babysitter which John desperately needed, when he would get back to work several weeks after the birth. “Second?”

Mary sighed. “Second…”, she struggled for the right words, “… because you’ll break Sherlock’s heart eventually.”

John’s features literally slipped off his face. He tilted his head in a question which he couldn’t utter. He was simply speechless.

“Oh come on, John. As obvious as he’s gay, he has also a crush on you. That’s why most of the people have mistaken you of being a couple.” Mary explained since John seemed to have lost his voice. “Sociopath or whatever he is, in the end it’ll break his heart, and then it’ll destroy him. Can you stand that one more time?”

He looked at his ex-wife with widening eyes when realization struck him. Shaking his head in disbelief, he croaked, “How’d you know?”

“Body language, John.”

Those were exact the same words Sherlock had used. He cleared his voice. “But there’s no proof.” _Proof? Who needs proof?_ Sherlock words echoed in John’s mind.

“How could there be any proof? Only you would know then.” She shrugged helplessly. “Maybe you should ask him?”

Crossing his arms, he answered, “I won’t. It’s his private decision.”

“It is.” Mary agreed. “But mark my words. If I’m right you should better put an end to it now because if you give him hope it’ll destroy him and finally you, too.”

John shook his head as if he didn’t want to hear Mary’s words, let alone believe her. “And how do I know that you just don’t lie to me because you’re jealous of my placid life?”

Dismayed at his question, Mary shook her head sadly. “Jealousy is a strong sentiment which requires love.” She took a deep intake of breath. “And I do still love you. But I also want you to be happy, so I keep it under wraps.”

He couldn’t say anything else at that, taking his jacket and briefcase, almost fleeing from the room. While driving home he cursed under his breath for not listening to Sherlock. It would definitely have been better if he would have taken a cab. Too many thoughts were whirling around his mind now.


	5. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> A huge thanks goes to the lovely Maya for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

Again, John Watson found himself driving aimlessly through the streets of London. There were so many parallels between Mary and Sherlock. They almost said the same, and Mary quite confirmed John’s peculiar impression about Sherlock being jealous. But there were so many shades regarding sentiments, one couldn’t just think of them as black and white. Probably Sherlock just meant that he was jealous because his friend wouldn’t have much time for him and his cases anymore.

Suddenly he remembered the day about one month after his wedding, when Sherlock had relapsed, and John had found him in that condemned building using cocaine again. He didn’t take the drug for a case, did he? Or was it because of John being married? Neither they had texted nor called each other within those four weeks.

John rolled his eyes irritably. He just couldn’t go home and just ask Sherlock as Mary had proposed. This was definitely crossing a line, overstepping their friendship. If his answer would be no, there would always be an awkwardness between them from then on. But the other possibility caused him even more discomfort. If the answer would be yes, they couldn’t be friends anymore. _I am not gay_.

_No_. He couldn’t ask the question. Even if it were true, they had shared the flat now for a long time, and Sherlock had never made any attempt to cross that line. Why would he consider it now, or even later on? Sherlock hated emotions and simply shut them out. He would do that further on. _No_. He wouldn’t ask the question.

He was almost at home when he realized that Sherlock had asked him to bring something from St. Bart’s along. So he turned and made a little detour to the hospital. It was lunchtime, and Molly would have some spare time to give John the package, thumbs most certainly.

“Fancy a cup of coffee?” John asked after entering the lab. Molly was sitting on a table, eating Chinese fast food, noodles with duck and hot sauce.

“John.” She greeted him with a broad smile, while John put the paper cup in front of her.

“Thanks.” She closed the lunchbox and rolled the cup in her hands. “It’s been a while… How’re you?”

“I’m fine… better.”

“And Sherlock?” A shy smile crossed her face for a second.

“Like only Sherlock can be.” John shrugged and added, “Which means he’s fine, too. And you?”

Molly took a sip of her coffee. “I had some nice dates. No psychopath, sociopath or clumsy oaf. I think I’m getting better.”

Chuckling, John remembered why he had come. “Sherlock said you would have something for him.”

“Ah yes.” She went to the cupboard behind the table and took a little black plastic box, shoving it to John.

He rubbed his nose nervously. Thankfully the box was too small for a severed head. “What’s in it?” He asked suspiciously.

“Eyes.” Molly replied casually.

John’s brows shot up, mumbling, “I hope he doesn’t want to make tea of it again.”

“Tea!?” Molly wrinkled her nose but John just shook his head, picking the box under his arm, ready to go.

He stopped at the door, the nagging thought never leaving his mind. “Ahem, Molly.” He cleared his throat tensely. “You do know Sherlock longer than me.” He was thinking so hard how to ask her that he spoke very slowly. “Did he… um… was he ever in a relationship with someone?”

Molly blinked several times nervously at the question. “Not that I know of. We barely talked about our private lives though.” She paused, furling her brows. “I actually think he never had a friend at all. He always kept his rough behavior, letting none ever become that close.” Absent-mindedly she trailed the pattern of her paper cup. “Until you came.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You’ve changed him. He treats you special. And now he even tries social demeanor with others.” Molly raised her eyes at John, suddenly smiling vaguely. “I think he loves you.”

Molly was always prone to blurting things out. It was her way to deal with an emotional self-consciousness. But was she right? He didn’t want to dig into more information with Molly. It was plainly too embarrassing, for both of them. He knew that Molly herself had a deep crush on the detective. So he just nodded and left hastily the morgue, ears painted in a crimson red.

_What am I going to do now?_ With the eyes in that black plastic box he had to head home. They needed refrigeration.

Climbing the stairs to their flat in 221B, John smelled something charred; burned hair or skin? He shuddered, hoping Sherlock didn’t torch his locks. Turning left, John skirted the living room by directly entering their kitchen. The mental image of Sherlock without locks was too hilarious but he was also worried.

“Ah! My eyes.” The deep baritone voice always felt like soft silk. He had his lab re-arranged on the kitchen table. His eyes remained focused on something under his microscope, holding out his hand for the box.

“What’s that bloody smell?” John gave him the box.

“Hair and skin.” Sherlock still didn’t look up.

John was scanning his friend for any injuries. _Curly hair, check. No visible burn marks, check_. The rest was obscured by his pajama and dark blue dressing gown.

“Not me!” Sherlock barely looked up from his microscope but the short eye contact reassured John. Since his best friend got shot – not to mention the bloody jump from the roof of St. Bart’s – John grew quite nervous when Sherlock injured himself or got injured. “Porcine skin.”

For whatever mind-blowing experiment that was, John thought. But he shrugged eventually and went to the living room, taking off his shoes and jacket.

Sherlock paid attention to his microscope again but he hadn’t failed to notice that John had left his leather briefcase in the kitchen. Trying to blank out this sudden intruder, he gave up after several minutes. He averted his eyes from the experiment, glancing at the briefcase. It was closed, so he couldn’t have a glimpse. Opening secretly to have a look at the papers was too conspicuous. John was sitting in his armchair, fumbling with the laptop; he could hear Sherlock. Oh, how he hated to ask, when he couldn’t deduce. Sighing, he rolled his eyes, “How was your meeting?”

He emphasized the last word, which John interpreted either as abhorrence or curiosity. He decided for the latter because Sherlock wasn’t nursing a grudge against Mary. Well, at least he didn’t hold the shot against her; he was only a bit piqued at her concerning John. “Good.” He answered curtly, casting a cursory glance over his shoulder towards the kitchen but carefully avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. That guy could read his mind, if he wanted. “Everything went smoothly. All papers are signed. End of the story.” He should have saved the last sentence. Obviously Sherlock could tell that John wanted to hide something. “I mean”, he stuttered, “I’m fine.” At this Sherlock nodded and addressed himself again to his microscope.

John brooded for an hour over his laptop, neither did he write something in his blog nor did he do anything at all. He just stared blankly at the small monitor. In his mind he re-played the conversations with Mary and Molly. He needed to admit that Mary was right up to a certain degree. If Sherlock loved John, it would be cruel to raise false hopes. But how could he broach this particular subject? He was so afraid of losing his friend or even hurting him. Suddenly he remembered Sherlock’s statement from that morning. “And? Did you have a cigarette?”

The question seemed to have Sherlock startled because he almost dropped a test tube. “No.”

Sherlock Holmes was a master manipulator and one of the best liars, John had ever met. But when it came down to his vices the façade was gone. His answer came too hesitantly.

“Really, Sherlock? Porcine skin?” So he had used the skin to conceal the smell of the cigarette smoke.

“Okay”, he huffed fretfully. “It was just one cigarette.” He went to John, rolling up his sleeve and showing him three nicotine patches on his right arm.

John raised his arms defensively. “You’re an adult.”

“Am I?”

_Great! Now he’s pouting._

Ignoring his experiment, he lounged himself opposite John into his green leather armchair. He squared his shoulders, arms left on the armrests, hands gripping into the leather. “Now will you tell me?” John used his most surprised expression, implying that he had no clue, what Sherlock could mean. “Oh, come on”, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his friend. “You stutter only, when you don’t want to tell. Not to mention your red ears.”

He should just blame Mary and get over with it. But instead, he answered with a counter question which took even John by surprise because he hadn’t actually paid any attention to this thought until this very second. “Why did you sell my house?”

Startled by John’s question, Sherlock furled his brows. “Did Mary disapprove of it?”

Of course Sherlock didn’t sense the meaning behind John’s asking. Mary had nothing to do with it. “No. I was the only entry in the land register. It was mine, so she had no say in it. However _you_ managed to sell _my_ house.” He murmured the last words.

“That was easy. I…”

But John interrupted Sherlock’s need to boast by raising a warning hand. “I don’t want to know. What I really want to know is _why_ you sold it?”

Confusion crept over Sherlock’s face. Was John angry with him for selling the house? But his body language didn’t show any tension. What else could he imply? “You said yourself that you couldn’t stand to live in that house anymore. Then you were living here for almost five months, bit by bit taking your clothes, books, and your gun from your house to our flat. Half your furniture was destroyed by an invisible rage…” At this, John shot his friend an annoyed look, and a smug smile curled around Sherlock’s lips. “… Your need for money. I just thought you’d be obliged to do eventually.”

_Thought_! Not _deduced_! Now then… “Could it be that you rather wanted to make sure that I won’t move back at last due to your own emotional egotism?”

He blinked once, twice, three times. Speechless terror was written over his face because with that question John got his friend completely off guard; emotionally stripped.

“I…” Sherlock cleared his throat, obscuring his mouth with his hand. To tell the truth, he hadn’t given a single thought about what John wanted. He just presumed that John would want to live with his flatmate again. His other hand started to grip the leather of his chair tightly, showing the great effort to ask, “Do you want to move out?”

“No.” He replied honestly. Since the morning he was contemplating all the time about losing his friend but that simple question confused him. He truly didn’t want to move out. But why did he want to stay then?

“Then why do you ask me?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, trying to find the answer in his friend’s face. “Does that have something to do with your meeting with Mary?” He spoke very slowly, a slight undertone of anger hidden in his voice.

John sighed. “We’ve just spoken about Janine…”

“What does Janine have to do with you living here?”

_Damn his high-speed thinking! He’s nailing me down._ John rose from his armchair. He decided to distract his rising apprehension by making tea. This conversation had too quickly taken a rather edgy atmosphere than John had wanted. “Look”, he tried to reason Sherlock, “There’s soon to be a baby in this house and everything will change. You can’t just play your violin in the middle of the night anymore. Babies do cry very often, Sherlock. It’ll soon set your teeth on edge. You just can’t shut yourself away in your mind palace every time you want to. You must make compromises. Have you even thought about this?” Sherlock opened his mouth in a reply but John interrupted him because he knew that his friend hadn’t paid any attention to such a thought. “Sooner or later, I’d like to go on dates again.”

“Hopefully not with psychopaths.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He felt treated like a child himself.

“Or _sociopaths_!” John snapped.

In a swift movement Sherlock rose and strode across the kitchen, tilting his head in a question. “What do you mean?”

Putting the tray with their tea set with a clink on the table, John exhaled slowly. He didn’t want to sound angry. “You know, you’re a terrible liar when it comes down to emotions. ‘You keep me right.’ Do you even remember what you said at my wedding? Or have you already deleted it?”

“No.” He clenched his jaw so tight that the muscle’s movement was visible.

“Sound an awful lot like ‘I need you.’” John’s expression was stern but his voice had grown softer. “Sherlock, I cannot give you what you want. I am not gay.”

John could see how his words struck his friend. His face contorted into a mask of pain and anger, which was a very rare sight. “Neither am I.” He held his head high, speaking through clenched teeth and trying desperately to keep his composure. “By the way, you have repeatedly made your point quite clear on that subject.”

Now John was confused. “Then…”

“I’m neither interested in men nor in women. Love’s always been a disadvantage. It distracts you and it makes you vulnerable to others.” Tears stung into his eyes but he blinked them furiously away. “I have only loved once and it had left me devastated.” John fidgeted nervously at Sherlock’s slight glimpse into his past which he always concealed to everyone. “I’ve but only one interest, John.”

Shaking his head, he whispered, “Please don’t.”

“You!”


	6. Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock figure out how to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> A huge thanks goes to the lovely Maya for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

When John walked into his life, Sherlock had indeed felt flattered. He never had any friends. People considered him being a freak, a psychopath or an anti-social genius. But John wasn’t to be deterred. And most of all, John wasn’t dull. He was broken, but so was Sherlock. For the first time in his life someone truly cared for him; not to mention that John had even killed that insane cabbie after just one day knowing each other. So, Sherlock had helped John getting over his post-traumatic stress disorder, and John on the other hand had helped Sherlock to get along with other people, pulling him out of his unsociable shell.

Sherlock felt comfortable around his best friend but in the end it was Molly who had pointed out his deep feelings for John. Sherlock himself probably would never have figured it out. But Molly’s story about her father had opened his eyes.

And now they were standing in their kitchen with only the naked truth between them.

“I used Janine to get at Magnussen. But I never had…“ He stopped, keeping that little detail rather to himself.

John was emotionally wrung out. His legs trembled slightly and he sat down at the kitchen table, the tea all but forgotten. His worst fears had come true.

“I don’t expect anything from you, John.” Casting his blue eyes down to the floor, he swallowed hard. “And I can completely understand if you want to move out after today.”

After a moment’s silence John’s hoarse voice said, “No.” Sherlock locked eyes with his friend in surprise. John’s eyes were filled with tears, too. “Like I said before, I don’t want to move out.” He inhaled slowly. “In some way, I need you, too. Although sometimes, I could also kill you.” He snorted a desperate laugh and paused shortly. “But I cannot overcome physical attraction.”

“Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models. Like I said before, I’m unaware of it. And I don’t care if it would be with a man.”

 _Would be_ … “Wait! So you’ve never been in a relationship at all?” John asked incredulously.

Sherlock looked taken aback, his sulky expression invading his face, his high cheekbones blushing. “I think that goes too far…” He wanted to retain some dignity.

“But you said yourself, you loved once.”

Frowning, Sherlock simply said, “Redbeard.”

John looked even more confused than before. “The pirate – Barbarossa?”

Sherlock smiled at the cleverness of his friend. “No.” Then a sad expression crossed his face. “Redbeard was my dog when I was a child.”

Not getting the full-scale of what Sherlock meant, John wrinkled his nose slightly. “So, you’re comparing me to a dog?”

“Not _a_ dog. _My_ dog!” Sherlock explained petulantly.

“Ah…”

“I truly loved Redbeard. And when he died, I was devastated. It caused so much pain.” Sherlock grimaced at the last word as if he experienced the hurt of loss the first time ever; always trying to grasp the feeling to get rid of it but never fully understanding it and failing eventually. “So I shut myself away from the emotional world as best I could.”

Would Sherlock have told him this the first day they had met, John had to admit he would have thought him to be crazy. But after all those years, this made completely sense. And even when John was compared figuratively with Sherlock’s dog, he realized what a delicate compliment his sometimes cold friend had paid him.

John believed that Sherlock, even as a child, had always had vast problems with understanding emotions. He didn’t think that Sherlock wasn’t capable of expressing them or perceiving them. How else would he be able to form his deductions which very often contained heavily implied emotional states of the people whom he observed? Only when it came down to his own emotional state did he fail to understand, _truly_ understand. Maybe he ignored it for too long. He could express sarcasm, cynicism or irony, but he couldn’t perceive them mostly when he was the victim of such things. Sometimes it was like dealing with a child. If the questions weren’t straightforward he wouldn’t understand and would counter them with another question.

“So…?” Sherlock fidgeted nervously from one foot to the other, and took John out of his contemplating.

John in comparison to Sherlock’s time of thinking was very slow, and he noticed that neither of them had spoken for several minutes. _What do I do?_ John noticed that Mary was right after all. Sooner or later he would hurt Sherlock. Being sure that his friend wouldn’t push anything John didn’t want, he made a decision. “Like I said, I need you, too. I would’ve gone insane the last months if not for our friendship.”

He chose the last word carefully to make his point clear and Sherlock nodded.

***

Six weeks further on, they found themselves back again, orbiting each other as if their conversation had never happened. John started even to believe that Sherlock could have deleted it for his own sake. Sometimes he wished he could have the same ability. But then John was grateful because he had a very rare insight of Sherlock’s past, and somehow, this little glimpse made him more human to John than he had thought of his friend before. Part of Sherlock’s denial of emotions was certainly accredited to Mycroft, John thought sourly. He used it as an armor, to shield himself of pain, loss and fear.

John even noticed that he didn’t feel uncomfortable in the presence of Sherlock who was very discreet after all. They worked on several cases. They met clients in their flat again; some of them were really strange and John finally found his smile again, giggling with Sherlock about the oddities of some people.

One evening they were at the morgue. Lestrade had asked Sherlock for help regarding a murder. Molly brought them coffee while John examined the body, and Sherlock read the autopsy report.

“Figured it out?” Molly was addressing John, shoving the paper cup to him.

John looked up, not quite sensing the meaning behind Molly’s words. “Well, obviously this man had died of asphyxiation. Why do you ask?” He had looked at the report before Sherlock had himself indulged in reading it. “You made the autopsy.”

Molly pressed her lips to a thin line and nodded, glancing over to Sherlock who talked to the DI. Then it dawned on John, and he just smiled vaguely, when suddenly his phone started to buzz.

“Yes… o-k-a-y… yes, I’m coming.” He put the phone back into his pocket, becoming rattled and locking anxious eyes with Sherlock. “Mary’s in labor. I need to go.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Sherlock looked worried at his friend. It was another emotional outburst of John, and he still had his difficulties in handling them.

“I… Ah…” John averted his eyes, turning around to grab his jacket. “No. I’m fine.” He looked at the body and then to Sherlock, his mind racing so he got the feeling of not being able to think properly. Taking a deep breath, he nodded subtly. “You stay. Your help here is more needed.” Then he darted for the door.

Sherlock blinked in confusion but eventually focused on the body’s fingernails when Molly stepped closer. “Sherlock Holmes.” She scolded as quietly as Molly only could scold. “Your friend needs you.”

“I beg to differ”, he mumbled, taking a sample of the dirt under the fingernail. “He just said _no_.” Then he looked at the autopsy report, completely ignoring Molly’s huffing. “Have you checked the dirt?”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Suddenly her voice felt like a slap which reminded him of their encounter after his drug test. This got his attention, and he finally looked up.

“The time between the first labor and the actual birth lasts twelve hours on an average with primiparas. So, there’s still plenty of time for me to solve this case and make it in time to the hospital.”

“John needs you right now.” Molly pointed out more urgently.

“But he said _no_.”

Molly sighed. “Sometimes a _no_ is a _yes_.” With this, she handed a confused looking Sherlock his coat and shoved him to the door. “Because sometimes people pretend to be strong for the sake of others.”

“I guess she’s right.” Lestrade concurred with Molly.

“But the case.”

“I’ll check the dirt and text you?” Molly knew that Sherlock hadn’t understood the meaning of John’s refusal but promising him that she would stay in touch with him was the only possibility to persuade him to go after John.

“Taxi!” John stood at the curb, hailing the black car with his hand. It was still an early afternoon but the sun was already setting down. Hopefully, the days would soon be longer again and warmer, John thought. He was tired of this cold winter. He yearned for the change, especially when his daughter would be there. He was still terrified of what would lie ahead but on the other hand he felt entirely happy. Soon he would be a daddy.

“Why is a _no_ sometimes a _yes_?” Sherlock’s deep voice from behind him startled John, while a cab pulled over.

John shook his head in disbelief, smiling nonetheless. _Molly!_ “Because people tend to be selfless every now and then.”

“That’s awful.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose in feigned disgust.

“I wanted you to stick with the case because you’ll be bored as hell in the hospital waiting with a nervous _me_.”

“So you said _no_ out of consideration for me?”

John held the door of the cab open. “I guess I did.”

“Never do that again.” Sherlock ducked into the car.

“Hmm?”

“Lie to me, John.”


	7. Insight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While waiting, Sherlock stresses a very valid point to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> A huge thanks goes to the lovely Maya for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

They were waiting behind the closed doors of the labor and delivery unit. Sherlock had taken a seat on one of the rather uncomfortable benches, while John was pacing back and forth. When they had arrived, they were instructed to wait and since then no-one had shown up again. There was another man sitting with his three year old son, waiting for any good news of his wife.

“Thank goodness they have closed doors!” Sherlock remarked dryly.

John stopped his pacing, arching a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Imagine those noises.” He feigned a shudder.

“Oh, come on.” John rolled his eyes exasperated. Since they had left the morgue, Sherlock used very offensive words. Continuing his pacing, he glared at his friend and realized that Sherlock was nervous. His whole body screamed tension; he was sitting straight as a pole, folded hands in his lap squeezing so hard that white knuckles were visible. But why was _he_ so nervous? _I’m going to be a father._ “Why’re you so edgy?”

“I’m not edgy.” He mumbled curtly.

“Yes, you are.” John folded his arms, pursing his lips. “Body language, Sherlock. Remember?” He nodded, arching his eyebrows knowingly. “Stop lying while you’re demanding the same from me.”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if he wanted to defend himself but stopped in the middle. Disentangling his fingers, he sighed. “This will change so much.”

It took John a moment to perceive what his friend meant. “Yes, it will. But this time it’s different. At least I’m not going to marry a psychopath.” He snorted a bitter laugh. “Babies are supposed to turn our lives upside down.”

“I’ve forgotten to clean my experiment from the kitchen table.”

Sometimes Sherlock’s mental leaps were just inexplicable. Luckily John had gotten used to it, so he knew what his friend wanted to say. “We’ve plenty of time to make our flat safe for a child. I don’t think the baby will immediately start to crawl when we arrive home.”

A sudden _Ahem!_ from behind made John almost jump. The nurse, a mid-thirties young woman with short blond hair, had eavesdropped their talk and smiled shyly. “Miss Morstan said that she doesn’t want any visitors. The doctor thinks the labor will last until the night. Maybe you want to have a meal at the hospital’s cafeteria before _your_ baby comes into the world?” Her eyes wandered confused between the two men.

John caught her look and the meaning behind it. _Our flat. Home_. “Oh! We’re not a couple.” But the nurse just smiled and scurried off.

“Always stressing the important.” Sherlock looked at his hands which were flexing involuntarily, speaking in a clipped tone. “Why is it so important to you what others think of you when you can’t even be honest with yourself? Or your friends?”

Gaping at his friend, John was taken completely off-guard by the question. “I told you I wanted you to solve the case because I know you hate hospitals and situations like this. It’s all boring for you.”

Slowly Sherlock rose from the bench, brushing his coat. “I get it. You’re lying to your friends with good intent.” Stopping in front of John, he slightly bent over to close the gap between their difference in height and John’s eyes widened at the sudden closeness. “But you’re lying to yourself, too. The point is, _methinks thou doth protest too much_.”

“No I don’t.” John stood his ground stubbornly. “You just feel offended because…”, _you wish for it_. He stopped because he couldn’t finish the sentence without inflicting too much pain for Sherlock.

Straightening his back again, Sherlock narrowed his ice-blue eyes at his friend. Then he strode past John. “I’ll get you some food.”

 _Methinks thou doth protest too much?_ John was mimicking Sherlock mockingly in silence. “Bloody consulting detective!” He murmured sulkily. Sitting down, he crossed his legs. _Why would I lie to myself?_

There was always certain proximity between them. While orbiting around each other, John never felt uncomfortable of casual touches of hands, arms or shoulders; even the accidental touch of their knees once under a table at Angelo’s didn’t bother him at all. After all Sherlock had taught him to dance. _Oh for God’s sake! Touches are a necessary evil._ He yelled at his mind. It is not like a touch by Sherlock would send an electrical tingling sensation down his spine.

Suddenly a mental image of Irene and Janine crossed his mind. He couldn’t quite make out what it was, what had caused him being irritated with those two women. Irene had pointed it out and would probably give him the same explanation Sherlock just gave him. But Janine was oblivious in regard to John. _It was just weird to actually see Sherlock with a woman_. Not to mention the kiss. He had felt very uncomfortable. _Jealousy?_

John groaned slightly, remembering Sherlock’s choice of word when he had explained why he didn’t perceive Mary to be a liar. So, was he jealous? Throwing his head into the neck, he pressed the balls of his thumbs to his eyes until he saw white and black stars. _No! I wasn’t jealous. It was just gross to see_. But why? It is not that he wanted to kiss his flatmate.

He could see why women felt attracted to Sherlock. He was tall, lean and elegant; in one word _unique_ with his features. He had some kind of fashion sense and liked to play with it. Not to mention his hair style for which he needed more time in the bathroom than John needed to shower.

But what John was most fond of was his friend’s brilliance which made him arrogant in front of people who didn’t know him. Unfortunately, the brilliance made him vulnerable, too. In his world Sherlock considered himself being superior which made him anti-social. With the lack of the social element he failed to see that he needed protection in a metaphorical sense. He needed someone who would fill in the social element. And that was John. They would fit perfectly.

 _It’s platonic_. The thought popped up in his mind as realization struck him. Friendship, love; it didn’t matter. It was platonic as long as John wouldn’t overcome physical attraction.

He was sitting there for quite a long time, eyes closed and his head rested at the wall which was right behind the bench. Meanwhile, the sunset had painted the sky in a bright purple, and the cold halogen lamps of the hospital were switched on. John had dozed off a little when a sudden rustling noise in front of his face startled him.

Sherlock was back with a paper back in his hand. He held the bag and a cup of coffee out to his friend. “Caffeine is going to be badly needed tonight.” He smiled vaguely, hoping John’s former irritation was gone again.

“Thank you.” While taking the bag and cup from Sherlock their fingers brushed slightly, and John almost flinched at the touch. _Dammit!_ Being aware of what he had thought about earlier this could get really frustrating.

Taking a seat beside John, Sherlock took a sip of his own coffee. “Any news?”

“No.” John blew at the rim of his cup absent-mindedly and put the bag with a sandwich to the vacant place on his left side. “Look”, he sighed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you. From now on I’ll just shut up, okay?”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving his coffee. They were sitting on the hard bench for another hour without saying a word. The blond short haired nurse had changed her outfit and seemed to clock out. Another nurse announced the other waiting man and his son that they were allowed to come in now, after congratulating him for his newborn son.

“Aren’t there supposed to be more waiting men?” Sherlock sighed. He was bored and John hadn’t talked to him for quite a while. Even Molly hadn’t texted yet.

“Not necessarily. The birth rate is dropping constantly.” John replied flatly. After a minute John recognized that Sherlock probably knew the statistics. Was this an attempt of chatting? He watched his friend closely from the corner of his eyes. He had a very distinctive face profile; black curls covering his forehead, a long nose, his ice-blue eyes having the shape of cats’ eyes, his high cheekbones. John’s eyes lingered a little too long on his friend’s lips remembering the time when Janine had kissed him.

“What is it?” John almost jumped at the question.

“What?”

“You barely watch me longer than three seconds. You’re behaving irrationally.” Sherlock tilted his head curiously.

“I’m going to be a father. I have every right to behave irrationally.” John feigned an excuse. He took the sandwich out of the paper bag, busying himself with eating.

Several hours had passed, and luckily Molly distracted Sherlock with the results of the dirt sample, while John had dozed off, snoring slightly beside his friend.

 _“Besides some remnants of sand, I’ve found alga.” – Molly Hooper_.

 _Alga?_ Sherlock furled his brows. Closing his eyes, he remembered the autopsy report and the file from Lestrade. He saw the pictures of the body, lying on the floor of his apartment, no signs of a fight and no weapon. He was most certainly killed with a cable tie according to the marks at his throat. Damp hair, it was stated in the report. Sherlock had checked all nails of the body, Mr. Jackson. Only his right pinky had some dirt under the nail. _Alga?_

A sudden thud on his left shoulder took him out of his mind palace. He squinted at John who was still sleeping but seemingly his head had become too heavy so it fell against Sherlock’s shoulder. John was completely unaware of his move as his snoring indicated. His short hair was tickling Sherlock’s neck and jaw slightly which was a pleasant distraction. He inhaled the scent of John’s shampoo. Not that he didn’t know how John’s hair products smelled like, but this time the scent mingled with John himself. An inconvenient flutter in his stomach increased his heart rate and he was so much tempted to comb through John’s hair. _Focus!_ His subconscious yelled at him. Closing his eyes again, he wasn’t sure if he could go into his mind palace with John this close. But it actually worked.

 _Alga?_ He watched the pictures of the apartment of Mr. Jackson. No aquarium. But how had he got alga under his fingernail. One photo showed a window with quite an exquisite view to London. Mr. Jackson was a wealthy man and could afford an expensive apartment in the middle of London the Thames snaking along in front of his house. “Oh!”

Sherlock took his phone and started texting Lestrade.

 _“Mr. Jackson wasn’t murdered in his apartment. He died in front of his house on the riverbank. Look there for clues.” – Sherlock Holmes_.

_“But we found him asphyxiated in his apartment.” – Greg Lestrade._

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 _“He was killed on the riverbank, brought back to his apartment, then he was cleaned (remember the damp hair! And that’s why he had dirt only at one finger) and changed. Check the dumpsters around his house. I presume it was his wife. But she had an accomplice, probably a lover or something. Text me, if I’m right.”_ _– Sherlock Holmes_.

With the case solved he leaned his head against the wall behind him. He didn’t want to stir too much to avoid waking John. He relished the moment, the warmth radiating from his friend. He had never sought closeness his entire life. Mycroft had always pointed out that love was a disadvantage. And then Moriarty threatened to murder John, along with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had realized that Mycroft was right after all. John had become Sherlock’s Achilles’ heel. Unfortunately Moriarty had figured this out before Sherlock had even recognized it. And then it was too late. He needed to die. Still feeling the tears running down his cheeks, he remembered how he had broken John’s heart and his own in unison.

“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice took him out of his gloomy memories, and his sudden move woke John. He seemed to be disoriented and blinked wearily the sleep away. For a moment he looked embarrassed at the spot where his head had rested the last hours. “I’m here to announce the birth of your daughter. Congratulations.” The nurse smiled at the men. “You can come in now.”


	8. Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John enjoys the first moments with his daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> A huge thanks goes to the lovely Maya for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

The nurse, this time a young woman with a long brown ponytail, led them through the LD unit to the maternity ward. John’s heart was hammering fiercely in his throat.

“Miss Morstan declared that she doesn’t want to see you, Dr. Watson, and she refuses to see your daughter.” The nurse explained, sneaking glances to the taller man in his black coat.

“But…” John stuttered not being able to form any coherent thought.

“We have to respect Miss Morstan’s wishes.” The nurse said formally.

“But that doesn’t make sense. We have agreed that my ex-wife will be part of our daughter’s life.” _Miss Morstan!_ Mary had insisted to return to her fake maiden name after their divorce.

The young woman turned around to face the two men, her long ponytail swinging elegantly with the movement. “I am sorry to say it, but Miss Morstan has changed her mind. It seems to be too much mental stress for her. Please, you have to respect that.” She looked at Sherlock pleadingly as if she wanted to say, _Help me make him understand_. Sherlock glared at the woman without sympathy.

She sighed finally and guided them to room number 247. “This is actually our family room. But since you’re the only relative you can use it until you leave.” The room was still empty because the pediatrician was examining John’s daughter for the Apgar score. There were two beds and a baby cot between them, a small table, two chairs and a changing table with a radiant heater above. The nurse rummaged through the closet and produced an extra pillow and additional blankets. John frowned because the beds were already equipped with pillows and blankets. “I’m going to bring your daughter now.” She smiled. “Strip to the waist and make yourself comfortable on one of the beds.”

“ _What_?” John’s voice got an octave higher and an embarrassed laugh escaped his throat.

“It’s called bonding. Since there’s no child’s mother, it’s necessary that you give as much physical contact as possible.” She explained matter-of-factly and then left the room.

John stood thunderstruck in the middle of the room. This would be an awkward moment with Sherlock around him. He usually wasn’t the shy guy when it came down to nakedness but knowing that Sherlock had more than friendship in his mind, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“Do you want me to go?” Naturally, Sherlock could read his friend’s mind.

“No.” The answer came quick and honest. How could he ask Sherlock to leave now after waiting half the day and night with him in a location he despised? And despite that fact he truly didn’t want his friend to go away now. It was a mix of anxiety and pride which led him to his reply. He actually wanted Sherlock to be a part of his little family.

Crossing the room, Sherlock leaned against the wall beside the window to have a good view to the entry of the rescue center, three floors downstairs. It was shortly before three o’clock and half of London was engulfed in darkness. Due to the fact that the room was flooded in light, he could clearly see a mirror image of John in the window, getting out of his grey jumper. A mischievous grin tucked at the right corner of his mouth when his phone buzzed.

_“You were right.” – Greg Lestrade._

His grin even widened, while the door opened again and the nurse with her long ponytail returned with a small bundle in her arm. John had made himself comfortable on the bed next to the window, the blanket pulled up to his collarbone, the bedhead slightly up. His heart seemed to skip several beats as the nurse declared, “Here we go.” She unwrapped the tiny bundle and revealed John’s daughter, carefully handing her over to her daddy.

It was like gravity had stopped and all the focus went directly to that little newborn. She was so tiny that John’s hands could easily wrap around her little torso. She was sleeping. Just for a second she opened her iron blue eyes, blinking confused. Soft black hair covered her head but John assumed, given her genes, that it soon would shed and give way to ash-blonde hair. John placed her carefully on his chest, intuitively pulling a pillow and a blanket over her. His daughter snuggled contently into the embrace.

“She achieved the full Apgar score. Everything’s fine.” The nurse explained, rounding the bed to stand beside Sherlock. “You still have time, but have you already chosen a name?”

“Yes.” John exhaled the word, being too smitten by his daughter than to produce any other word for the moment.

“Why is she wearing a blue romper?” Sherlock asked out of the blue, his voice betraying his petulance.

The nurse looked taken aback at the tall man, whose eyes glared at her. Every attempt to flirt with him failed, and now she was forced to explain herself. “We ran out of girls’ rompers. Too many girls at the ward.” She mumbled.

“Sherlock.” John tried to soothe his friend. “It’s okay. It’s just a romper.”

Sherlock ignored John’s newly found way of speaking coherent again, hissing at the young woman. “Then go, find some unisex rompers.”

The nurse turned quite pale and stormed out of the room. “You know, you don’t have to be intimidating. You could have asked her politely for some privacy.” John said mildly and chuckled.

Taking a step closer to the bed, Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “This hospital is awful, having no rompers fitting for a girl. Let’s go home.”

“I know you hate hospitals but this little one here had quite a stressful day. Let her sleep, and then we can go home when the sun’s up again.”

Sherlock sighed, placing a chair beside the bed. “So? What’s her name? I’m still for Sherley.” He grinned at his own quip.

“Shut up!” John chuckled; the up and down of his chest letting the little baby squirm slightly. “Her name is Emma Grace Watson.”

***

John had wanted for Sherlock to go home to get some decent sleep after all but his friend had insisted on staying. Due to his aversion in regard to hospitals he had even declined to sleep in the second bed. So he stayed in the uncomfortable chair next to John’s bed for the rest of the night. Most of the time, Sherlock watched John and his daughter in the semi-dark room. Had John even noticed that Sherlock had once, only once, mentioned that Grace was a truly beautiful name? He had mentioned it casually while skimming through the newspapers. Sometimes John was as unreadable as Sherlock himself but usually he was an open book to his friend.

After the ward round in the morning, and John’s first successful attempt to feed Emma, Sherlock took a cab to drive home and fetch decent girls’ rompers along with a baby seat. They wouldn’t stay any longer than necessary in that hospital, he had declared.

The nurse of the nightshift hadn’t shown up again after Sherlock’s waspish comment. Even after shift change in the morning there were no nurses to be seen. John chuckled as he remembered the pale face with reddened ears. He hadn’t liked that nurse at all. Her tone toward John was rather condescending but toward Sherlock she was all nice, trying to get positive feedback and seeking closeness. Suddenly the scales fell from his eyes. She had been flirting with Sherlock. John had just been too occupied with himself than to recognize it. That’s why Sherlock was so rude to her. She had gotten on his nerves.

_There’re quite a lot of women looking after Sherlock_ , John mused. And somehow, this annoyed him over and over again. Of course it was a purely hypothetical thought. And hypothetically regarded Sherlock would need a marker or something else if he would be with John; otherwise it would be really annoying if women would always try their luck with Sherlock. On the other hand, some of those encounters could be quite entertaining. John shook his head, chuckling silently.

An hour later Sherlock showed up again with the baby seat and a bag with fresh clothes for Emma, while John finished feeding his little daughter and smiled contently. “We’ll be ready to go in ten minutes.” John declared, rubbing Emma’s back for a burp. “I just need to sign the discharge papers with the doctor.”

“I can do this for you.” Sherlock said, ready to go because John was pretty much occupied with his daughter.

“They need _my_ signature.”

“No problem at all.” Sherlock shrugged, already opening the door.

“Wait! That’s how you sold my house? You faked my signature?” John stood up, laying Emma down on the changing table and undressing her with still unpracticed hands. “How ordinary.”

Sherlock frowned as if it were an insult. “Ordinary? Try to fake my signature.”

Changing the nappy with a struggling little girl wasn’t as easy as it seemed. “Nobody can fake your sign. It’s un-scribb-able.” He said amused, then pointed to the bag with the rompers. “Give me a romper suit.”

“Un-scribb-able? That’s not even a word.” Sherlock pouted confused but nonetheless handed a lilac romper suit to John.

John ignored his friend’s skit. “I’m going to sign the papers, and you’ll wait here with Emma.”

Sherlock dropped into the uncomfortable chair, arms crossed in front of him while John got his daughter ready putting on a pair of woolen shoes. Then he turned to Sherlock holding the girl in front of him.

“Take her while I fetch the papers.”

Sherlock almost jumped from his seat, looking terrified. “No, thank you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most certainly I’ll break _something_.”

“Now don’t you tell me that Sherlock Holmes is terrified of little baby girls?” John teased.

“Of course not.” Sherlock squared his shoulder, and added hesitantly, “I just don’t know how to hold her.”

“Give me your right arm.” John didn’t even wait for Sherlock to move but adjusted his arm and hand, so he could put Emma snugly into the crook of his arm. “Just be careful with the head. It still needs support.”

Sherlock was dumbstruck, watching carefully every move John had made with his arm, and now his daughter was lying in Sherlock’s arms, blinking with those deep blue eyes at him. He had looked at her in the night, but not from this angle. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is.” Agreed John, being amazed at Sherlock’s expression of pure wonder.

“She has your nose and mouth.” Sherlock said, and added teasingly, “Not so sure if that’s good.”

“Good thing for you that you hold my daughter right now, otherwise you’d risk a broken nose.” With this John put his hand gently under Sherlock’s elbow to adjust the pose a little. Lifting his head slightly to lock eyes with John, his friend realized how close they were. He even felt the tickle of Sherlock’s breath on his face, smelling faintly the tea he had before he left for home. They just stared at each other for a moment, both of them startled at the closeness but then Emma moved a bit, and Sherlock broke the eye contact; so the moment was gone.

John cleared his voice sheepishly, straightening himself. “I… ahem… I’ll get those papers now, and then let’s go home.”


	9. See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock approach differently in handling Emma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> A huge thanks goes to the lovely Maya for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

“Oh, there you are,” greeted Mrs. Hudson, peeking through the door of her flat. John carried Emma who was still sound asleep in her baby seat, while Sherlock strode past them heading for the staircase.

John put the baby seat onto the armchair beside the staircase, so Mrs. Hudson could have a look at his little daughter. “Here we are.” He echoed, smiling proudly at the landlady.

“Oh!” She squeaked with pleasure, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Wiping her wet hands from dish washing at her apron, she squatted down in front of the armchair. “What a cute little bit of sunshine you are.” Cautiously she touched one tiny hand, while Emma blinked at the touch and the missing sway of the seat, carried by John. "What’s her name?” Mrs. Hudson looked up at John.

“Emma Grace.”

“Oh, what a beautiful name for such a cuddly moppet.”

Sherlock huffed audibly. “Could you please speak coherently and stop giving her pet names?” He couldn’t stand this anymore and climbed the stairs to their flat.

“Maybe I should ask your mother which pet names she had indulged you with.” Mrs. Hudson cat-called at Sherlock, shaking her head in disbelief and then turned her broad smile toward the little girl again.

“I believe she’ll be of little help when it comes down to the idiocy of pet names.” Sherlock returned dryly.

“He must always have the final say.” Mrs. Hudson explained to Emma the blunt manners of her tenant. “Hopefully you teach him some manners one day.” Prodding gently the little girl’s belly, she earned an honest yawn. Mrs. Hudson rose and looked at John gravely, “How’s Mary?”

The question took John by surprise but how could Mrs. Hudson know that his ex-wife had changed her mind, and he knew almost nothing about her health. He had asked the doctor when he had signed the discharge papers but due to medical confidentiality he couldn’t tell John much, only that there had been no complications, and she would leave the hospital in three days. So he smiled sadly, and replied, “She’s fine.”

Taking his daughter out of the baby seat, he followed Sherlock upstairs and was astounded to find the kitchen all tidied up. The question was who had done it. Most certainly Mrs. Hudson, John concluded.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock shouted downstairs through the kitchen door, and Emma’s eyes widened at the loud voice. “Make us tea, please. With some biscuits.”

“I’m not your housekeeper, dear.” Mrs. Hudson waggled a finger from downstairs, but then grinned mischievously, “Can I give her pet names?”

“No.” Sherlock replied curtly. “I’ll make tea.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” John swore, “Of course she can give Emma pet names, Sherlock. Now drop it.” He handed his baby girl carefully into Sherlock’s arms to shrug out of his jacket. His friend was still wary how to handle Emma. But John noticed that Sherlock grew quite relaxed and quiet when he was rocking his little girl. The crease between his brows faded and small laughter lines appeared around his eyes instead. _That’s quite an effect_ , thought John amused. Every time Sherlock started to pout or grew petulant, he just should shove his daughter into the detective’s arms.

John lounged into his armchair with a heavy sigh. He had barely slept the last twenty four hours, and admittedly he was exhausted. Pensively he rubbed the bridge of his nose, “How will I explain it?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock and Emma were looking at each other with equal curiosity.

“It wasn’t supposed that our daughter would grow up without knowing her mother. How will I explain that to Emma?”

Sherlock furled his brows at his friend’s sad question but nonetheless smiled vaguely at Emma. “I guess you’ve still plenty of time to think about an explanation.”

“You’re right.” John sighed, rising again and heading for the kitchen. “I think I’m just shocked because I never assumed that I would be alone in raising a child.”

Sherlock flinched visibly at the remark, looking hurt but didn’t reply at once. While John fetched a tray and mugs from the cupboard, Sherlock realized subconsciously that he wanted to make tea and yet it was John again who addressed himself to this task. When the water kettle boiled, Sherlock found his voice again, “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

Turning around to face his friend, he saw that Sherlock didn’t dare to look into John’s eyes and rather dealt with Emma, who had a fierce little grip of his pinky. “I know.” John remarked mildly, “I didn’t mean it that way, Sherlock. I just thought Emma would always have a mother, but now…” He trailed off, shaking his head to announce that he wanted to drop the subject, at least for now. “I’m still here.” He walked two steps forward to meet his friend’s eyes but Sherlock still refused to look up. So John put a reassuring hand at the nape of his neck, saying, “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here anymore, would I?” Finally Sherlock’s eyes looked at John confused, and he nodded slowly.

Sherlock’s heart pounded rapidly in his chest that he even felt the beat in his throat. There was the moment again, the same tense moment from the hospital, and he wasn’t quite sure what John meant. Certainly, John wasn’t deviating from his saying of not having a relationship with a man? But why did he seek physical contact so much recently? Was he even aware of it? Not to mention of his sensitive way of speaking with Sherlock. All that Sherlock needed to do to find out the truth, would be to tilt his head slightly and close the gap between them for a kiss.

“The cot.” He said instead, hoping not to choke on the lump in his throat.

“The cot?” Repeated John incredulously, letting his hand fall to his side.

Sherlock flinched slightly at the loss of warmth. “Have you already assembled the cot?”

John blinked at the about-face of their topic, but replied with a clear, “Oh.” Of course he hadn’t assembled the cot yet. Emma was originally due in two weeks ahead. So the package stood still untouched in the corner of his bedroom. “No, I haven’t thought about it yet.”

Giving Emma back to his father, Sherlock took a cutter from the kitchen drawer. “I’ll do it then.” He declared and was already on his way to John’s bedroom. John got the awkward feeling as if Sherlock wanted to run away from him.

“You can assemble a cot?” John asked rather absent-mindedly.

“Of course.”

“Well, I thought you were rather the theoretical chemistry genius than a craftsman.” John couldn’t bite back the teasing undertone.

And of course Sherlock fell for it, looking all like a puffed up bird. “I am not stupid.” And then he headed for the bedroom upstairs. John could swear that his friend blushed a bit and at the end of the day, he knew, he had to apologize to Sherlock.

***

The first couple of days were hard. Emma slept almost the whole day but was quite awake at night. John needed to learn which cry meant hunger, tiredness or full nappy. Sherlock approached the subject rather rationally and wrote every sound Emma made down into his laptop. Excel provided him quite a good option to analyze her behavior with a spreadsheet. But he was at a loss because the evaluation didn’t fit most of the time with Emma’s needs. So he dropped it and started to study John instead, who was more successful in his doing than Sherlock. Of course he would never admit this.

John was astonished by his friend’s not so familiar calm manners. Usually Sherlock would grow bored without cases but it seemed that Emma drew his attention. Only once in a while he solved a minor case. He even got up in the night to help John making the bottles. Slowly they got used to their new found rhythm, and somehow John was proud that Sherlock, meanwhile, could very well handle feeding Emma and even changed her nappies. Funnily enough his deep voice seemed to soothe the little girl, so when she had a sore tummy or when she was simply overtired, Sherlock was the one to coo her into sleep.

Nonetheless, it was still John’s key task to tidy up the mess of the day in the evening. Luckily, Emma owned not many toys yet. This would change in a few years. By then her playground would be the room downstairs.

“Could you please make room for me?” John asked a little snappy when he wanted to lounge onto the sofa after a long day. He pointed at the left seat of the sofa where Sherlock’s legs were outstretched. As always his flatmate had sprawled out over the entire sofa.

“I need to rest my legs.” He told languidly, watching news in the telly.

John huffed. “I’d like to rest, too. Just for a little while?” He didn’t want to sit down in his armchair because watching telly from that angle would hurt his neck after a while. _It wouldn’t hurt Sherlock being a bit considerate_ , he thought stubbornly.

Sighing, Sherlock drew his knees up so John could sit down. But then Sherlock placed his long legs again over the lap of John, laying his feet down on the armrest. Somehow, this remembered John of a big cat, sprawled over its owner. He was slightly confused but didn’t say anything; he was just at a loss of not knowing where to rest his hands now. Letting them fall to his sides as nonchalantly as possible he cleared his throat but Sherlock was completely unaware of his friend’s uncomfortable position.

“You know, your daughter is quite illogical.” He murmured, his eyes still at the telly.

John had noticed that Sherlock chose to refer to _your daughter_ only when she didn’t act as he would have expected. It was a sort of sulking with Emma. He knew Sherlock was counting the milliliters Emma was drinking every meal, and he was stopping the time between the meals; only that the little girl didn’t comply with the time and amount of her drinking, not to mention her full nappies.

“She’s a baby, Sherlock.” He tried to reason his friend, feeling distractedly the warmth of Sherlock’s legs radiating into his lap. “She’s supposed to behave illogically.”

“Must be a family trait.” Sherlock remarked flatly but then grinned cheekily.

Now it was John’s turn to pout, and he run his thumb across Sherlock’s sole in a quick move like some kind of vengeance. Sherlock’s foot jerked slightly, and John snorted with a chuckle because he hadn’t assumed his friend to be ticklish. “Wait ‘til she reaches her teens.”

It wasn’t John’s remark which drew Sherlock’s attention but the sudden touch. He stared at his friend in disbelief. Until the tickle, Sherlock hadn’t even noticed that he had put his legs in that position to trap John onto the sofa. And now his hand rested on Sherlock’s naked foot, leaving tiny electrical impulses running up his leg. “I didn’t mean to trap you.” He just said plainly.

“Hmm?” John read some subtitles of the news on telly absent-mindedly.

Taking his feet off the armrest to place them between John’s legs and the armrest, Sherlock increased the pressure on John’s legs on purpose. Therefore, Sherlock made his point and waited for any reaction from his friend. John obliged almost immediately by placing his hands on Sherlock’s calves; not to shove them away but to lift them slightly because his friend was baking hot.

“You don’t _see_ it, do you?” Sherlock watched John intently through narrowed eyes.

Fidgeting slightly under Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze, John shrugged. He knew that Sherlock was referring to their close sitting positions. Over time, he had grown accustomed to Sherlock around him. That wasn’t something new. “I don’t mind.” He finally conceded but Sherlock knew that John was still oblivious of the obvious. Under Sherlock’s glare John started to feel uncomfortable and wanted to get up but his friend’s legs lay heavily on his lap.

“A tiny psychological experiment…” Sherlock started and lifted his torso into a sitting position, moving slowly forward to John who suddenly felt like prey on the hunt.

The sudden ringing of Sherlock’s mobile saved John from whatever experiment Sherlock had in mind, and he let out the breath he was holding. Sherlock frowned at his phone when he saw the number pop up on the touchscreen; a mix of annoyance and stubbornness.

“Yes.” Sherlock finally released John who rose a little too eagerly from the sofa. Sherlock paid almost no attention to the caller but remained to watch John intently. “What?” The sudden sharpness in his voice made John frown at his friend. But then Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, “Yes.”

Hanging up, he stared at the black screen of his mobile for a while. “What’s it?” John asked curiously. This wasn’t for a case, otherwise Sherlock would be all giddy with excitement.

“My parents want us to visit them at Easter.”


	10. Redbeard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a little glimpse into Sherlock’s past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> A huge thanks goes to the lovely Maya for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

They had visited Sherlock’s parents at Christmas last year, so this wasn’t something new, but somehow Sherlock was twitchy about it. It wasn’t either of his parents who had called him but Mycroft. And why would Mycroft call him to ask for visiting their parents at Easter if he didn’t have something going on?

The first time John had met Sherlock’s parents he was rather surprised. Sherlock was so unique that he had imagined his parents being extraordinary. But he was wrong. They were a normal couple just with two extraordinary sons. Surely that was the reason why Mycroft and Sherlock rolled their eyes at them as often as they could. At Christmas John figured out that Sherlock’s mother was the third genius of the family. She seemed to be a stern person but he could see warmth, too. The father was the normal one, and John had finally found an accomplice in regard to defending himself against Sherlock’s moods. John still had a difficult time around Christmas, and it did him good to get out for once, and Sherlock’s parents with their heartwarming manners had helped him with it.

There were still six weeks until Easter and Sherlock, for the first time since Emma’s birth, plunged into The Work again. But there was more to it than that, John suspected. Sherlock assumed that Mycroft didn’t invite them to Cornwall just out of sympathy. Surely the Holmes’ parents were curious about John’s daughter, and they would be delighted to meet her, too. But Sherlock was quite certain that Mycroft was hiding a big case like he sometimes did it before. So he tried to find out what it was.

Meanwhile, John started to work part-time in the surgery for three days a week. They had agreed while John was working Sherlock would undertake the babysitting. And if Sherlock would be occupied, too, Mrs. Hudson would take care of Emma. The first day at work was weird. He missed his little daughter so much even though he was merely five hours at work. Next time he must remember to take a picture of her with him. When he came home he expected a complete chaos left behind by Sherlock but instead he was surprised by a clean flat, his friend lying on the floor in his black suit, helping Emma to grab a rattle while she lay on her belly in front of him, babbling incoherent.

John was greeted with a broad smile by Sherlock. He hadn’t seen him so relaxed for quite a time.

“She’s smiling.” Sherlock declared, beaming with joy. “Come on, smile for your dad.” He nudged her nose lightly. But instead of a smile John just reaped babbling with a drool bubble formed at the corner of Emma’s mouth.

It was John’s first day at work. Originally he wanted to start the following week, the week after Easter, but the surgery had called and asked if he could take up the slack for a colleague. He wasn’t even supposed to work, and then he missed the first smile of his daughter. Sighing, he put his briefcase on the kitchen table.

But Sherlock didn’t give up and made funny faces for Emma while John stood with mouth agape watching the odd couple. And then there it was. A small tug at the corner of Emma’s mouth, and she smiled. It was the first thing his daughter had truly learned beside drinking, sleeping and filling her nappies.

“You know,” John started, sitting down on the floor beside Sherlock, “I envy you that you’re so adept in handling Emma while I suck at it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock scolded John. “You’re as adept as I am. You just lack my deep voice to soothe her.” Winking at him, John knew that his friend meant more to it. But before he could disagree, Sherlock got up, grabbing his coat.

“You’re going out?”

“Working on a case.” Sherlock murmured while he put his scarf around his neck.

“But we’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

“I’ve packed and am ready to go. I’ll be back before dawn.”

John got the sarcastic undertone. “So, you’re still on the chase.” Sherlock was still trying to find out what Mycroft was hiding, and he knew that John was rather amused by the detective’s persistence. “Just drop it. Can’t you just imagine that Mycroft asked for the visit because he wanted to spend some time with his family?”

At this question John earned a heartily laughter by Sherlock. Even John had to admit that this was so out of Mycroft. “Mycroft is an egomaniac besides the things he does for the British government.” He kneeled down to give Emma a kiss on the head. “I’ll find out what he’s hiding, and I’ll be back before dawn.” He repeated emphatically before he left the house in a hurry so John couldn’t raise another objection.

***

Of course Sherlock hadn’t found out whatever Mycroft’s evil plans were, and so he pouted all the way to his parents’ house. With Emma sleeping in her baby seat, and Sherlock not telling a word, John got the feeling this would be the longest drive he ever had. Luckily there were no traffic jams which would prolong their journey.

_Bling!_

_“Are you already on your way? Mummy is preparing lunch and worried you wouldn’t make it in time.” – Mycroft._

“Oh for God’s sake,” hissed Sherlock, rolling his eyes. Ignoring the message, his eyes wandered back to the road. John looked confused at Sherlock from the corner of his eyes. They had taken John’s car, and he needed to focus on driving but he guessed the text was from Mycroft.

It was slightly odd, that Mycroft hadn’t shown up after Emma’s birth. John had thought Sherlock’s big brother was curious and would have interfered happily with their domestic bliss. Probably he had them under surveillance with the cameras around 221B.

Half an hour later they arrived at the beautiful rust-colored cottage. Mrs. and Mr. Holmes greeted their son and John by coming to the car to have the first look at the baby.

“Oh, she’s so sweet.” Mrs. Holmes clapped her hands. “Can I hold her?”

“Sure.” Emma was awake the second the car had come to a halt. John unstrapped his daughter and carefully handed her over to Sherlock’s mother who made the funniest noises to get the little baby’s attention.

“Careful, John! She’ll never hand her back.” Sherlock said with a smile, and John chuckled.

Mr. Holmes, meanwhile, opened the car trunk to help with their luggage. Finally all of them headed for the door where the last Holmes family member waited for them with his typical three-piece suit, sand-colored.

“Hello John.” He greeted his little brother’s flatmate with his usual smug smile.

“Hullo Mycroft.” John countered, “Meet Emma Grace.” He pointed to the little bundle in Mrs. Holmes’ arms. A short smile flickered across Mycroft’s face.

“Why haven’t you visited us before?” Sherlock shoved himself between John and Mycroft, and the verbal slugfest of the brothers began.

“I was busy.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Obviously his little brother was displeased that he hadn’t shown up after Emma’s birth to pay deference to John. At least they had known each other for over five years now.

“What kept you busy?” Sherlock immediately fell for Mycroft.

“Not telling.” Mycroft wrinkled his nose at Sherlock’s pressing question because he knew that his little brother had been spying on him for the last weeks.

“Oh, hush! Both of you!” Mrs. Holmes could have a very severe tone in her voice which even John made almost jump. She ushered them into the house, and both the Holmes brothers were momentarily silent.

_The British government and the sociopath are knuckling under their mummy_ , John found that hilariously funny. As it was at Christmas, John was immediately incorporated into the family circle. Mrs. Holmes took care of Emma most of the time, and John watched amused how Sherlock and his mother fought for Emma’s attention. Again, John was confronted with a complete normal family. Before he had met Sherlock’s parents he had contemplated very often why his friend had become like he was now. But after meeting his parents he perceived that they were just blessed with two extraordinary geniuses. Mr. Holmes had said to John once that Sherlock at the age of ten could fluently speak four different languages but he hadn’t been able to lace up his shoes. Both of their children felt superior regarding their knowledge toward others also including their parents, so they felt often annoyed by their mother and father. _This must be hard for a parent_ , John thought and hoped that his daughter wouldn’t be a genius.

With Emma occupied by Mrs. Holmes, John actually had some time to read a book again but most of the time he was distracted by Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s disputes. Sherlock was still trying to find out what his brother could possibly hide but of course Mycroft didn’t oblige.

On Easter Sunday Mrs. Holmes indeed declared that she had hidden some colored eggs in the garden. And John couldn’t stifle a snort with laughter when he watched both brothers fighting at this very second, and at the next one they were rolling their eyes simultaneously at their mother’s suggestion.

“You cannot be serious.” Sherlock raised a brow.

“For Emma.” Mrs. Holmes explained matter-of-factly.

John could see Sherlock’s brain working to find any coherent significance of what his mother meant but he failed eventually. “She’s not three months old yet.”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock. It’ll be fun.” Mr. Holmes came to the rescue of his wife.

“No.” With this Sherlock just left the party irritated.

After searching the whole garden for colored eggs for a three month old little girl who even couldn’t eat said eggs yet, they had a nice quiet evening. Sherlock was still pouting at his mother’s stubbornness, John could see, but at last he gave in and proposed to bathe Emma and then take her to bed, so he did find some time to avoid his parents.

After giving his daughter a good night kiss, John headed downstairs while Sherlock stayed at Emma’s portacrib until she would be sleeping. At the wall of the corridor were several family photos arranged, and John found finally time to watch them closely. Seeing Mycroft and Sherlock at the age of probably five and twelve years old, John chuckled slightly. But then he pressed his lips to a thin line, realizing that they hadn’t once smiled on one single photo. And then he came upon a picture of a young boy with unruly curls and a red cocker spaniel.

While Mrs. and Mr. Holmes had made themselves comfortable in the living room in front of the chimney, John was heading for the kitchen to meet Mycroft, working at his laptop.

“What can you tell me about Redbeard?” John rubbed the bridge of his nose pensively.

“He’s told you about it?” asked Mycroft bewilderedly.

Shrugging, John replied, “He just said once that he was very fond of his dog.” The other points of that conversation he kept rather to himself.

“That he was,” Mycroft indeed watched John open-mouthed, furling his brows. He knew that John was always special to Sherlock but he hadn’t presumed that his little brother indeed would open up enough to John, especially in regard to his past. “Did you know that Sherlock’s first words came up when he was four months old?”

John arched his brows in disbelief. “No.” _But what does that have to do with Redbeard?_

“He could read when he was almost two years old.” Mycroft closed his laptop. “It became very quick clear that he was exceptionally intelligent. Unfortunately along with his intelligence he was also quite unsociable. Neither other children nor adults had understood him. So he concealed himself. Of course my parents consulted a psychiatrist, and he suggested a pet… a dog to bring Sherlock out of his shell.”

Sighing, Mycroft got up and took two shot glasses from the cupboard to pour them an expensive looking Scotch. “Did it work?” asked John impatiently.

“Yes.” A short smile tugged at the corners of Mycroft’s lips. “But then my parents decided that Sherlock should go to a public school like me. At least he was a genius; like me.” Again Mycroft’s smug smile appeared, and he took a sip of his Scotch. “But it went wrong. Sherlock wasn’t ready for other people and of course a dog wasn’t allowed in a public school. So he ran away with Redbeard. They didn’t find him for almost two days.” Mycroft’s look became unfocused. “Redbeard died.”

John’s heart hammered wildly in his chest. He knew Sherlock wasn’t a true sociopath; he knew that Sherlock used it as a disguise to protect himself. But hearing this story, he could understand for the first time since he had met Sherlock why his friend acted like he used to do; the death of his dog must have thrown him completely out of balance. “How?” His hoarse voice betrayed his emotional state.

“It was an accident.” Mycroft explained. “Sherlock was only eight years old by then. He had been hiding deep in the woods. A hunter had Redbeard mistaken for a fox and shot him.”

“Jesus…”

“Sherlock locked himself away again and didn’t speak for over a year. He still blames himself for Redbeard’s death because he had taken the dog with him… into danger.” He emptied the shot glass when he recognized that they had been eavesdropped.

Sherlock stood in the kitchen door, glaring at his brother. They had an agreement not to talk to anybody about their past. He wouldn’t have minded it too much if it would have been someone else, but it was John. Feeling hurt that John hadn’t asked him, he headed for the stairs.

“Lord,” whispered Mycroft.

John, who had been sitting with his back to the kitchen door, being oblivious, turned around to see Sherlock walking away. _Shit!_ He got up to follow his friend, knowing very well that Sherlock would disapprove John asking Mycroft about his past. Taking two steps at a time, he hoped to stop Sherlock before he could lock himself in his room. But he didn’t make it in time. Sherlock shut the door in John’s face.

“Sherlock!” Just for a second he could see his friend’s annoyed expression; or was it a pained expression?


	11. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are having a row with an unexpected denouement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

Their return to London the next day wasn’t any better than the drive to Cornwall. Sherlock was in his brooding mood since the evening before, and he had avoided John the next morning, too. He just skipped breakfast and lunch, and even when they had stowed their luggage into the car trunk he still hadn’t spoken any word at all.

_This is ridiculous_. John thought, anger slowly creeping up his spine. What would his parents think about his behavior? He completely ignored Mycroft when they said Goodbye to the family. Mycroft knew that he mustn’t interfere with his little brother’s mood because this time he would be on the loser’s side. So he just gave John a subtle nod, and John wasn’t quite sure if this nod even contained an apology for what had happened.

On the road, Sherlock’s eyes weren’t focused on anything particular. But John could tell that he wasn’t in his mind palace, too. When Sherlock was on his pouting mode before, John had simply avoided him by going out, or shutting himself away in his bedroom, reading a book. But now they were bound to each other, be it on their way home or in their flat. With Emma he just couldn’t go out having date. A date? He hadn’t thought about dates in ages. He just hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t get too nasty in his manners because he could be very offending every once in a while.

Sighing softly, he acknowledged to himself that he wasn’t entirely innocent in this case. Imagining an eight year old Sherlock emotionally broken up because he had seen his dog being shot and bleeding to death, was something Sherlock should have told him, not Mycroft. Of course that left invisible bruises on his mind. _Love’s a dangerous disadvantage_. The words were ringing in John’s head. _But that’s not true_. John argued stubbornly with himself. Somehow, he wanted to prove Sherlock that love didn’t only provoke fear of the loss but good feelings either; the reason to get up in the morning, having fun together, being a family. Another sigh escaped his throat, and Sherlock shot him an irritated look from the corner of his eyes. He had even denied himself having fun with his parents. Of course it was absurd to search colored eggs in the garden for a three month old baby but it was fun, and John earned more than once a smile by his daughter.

_Then how would it be, having a relationship with Sherlock?_ The thought popped involuntarily up in his mind. Solving cases together was definitely fun but that wouldn’t be enough. Meeting friends would be another option but it was rather limited because Sherlock would scarcely allow new friends. _God, he is his own worst enemy_. John scowled. But then on the other hand, he was treating Emma completely adorably; an image only John had the privilege to see. _It is a start_. But would he really change? _Could_ he really change? Did John want him to change?

“Watch out!” Sherlock’s sudden shout drew him out of his contemplation as he noticed that he almost ignored somebody’s right of way and thus provoked a car crash.

Jamming on the brakes, he came barely five centimeters in front of the other car to a halt. The other driver waved his fist angrily, and Emma in her baby seat wailed over the abrupt stop, blinking shortly and then continued her nap. “Jesus…” John was breathless.

“Shall I drive?” Sherlock spoke in a clipped tone, looking irritated at John.

John looked at him incredulously, anger again rising at his tone. “You know what,” he began almost shouting, “Yes.” With this he opened his door and got out of the car, inhaling deeply the fresh air. It was a hot day, the promise of the soon coming summer, and the humidity implied a later thunderstorm.

Since Sherlock hadn’t moved at all, John glanced back into the car, tilting his head. “Now? Will you take over?” It sounded snappier than intended but he realized that since last evening, since Sherlock had slammed the door in John’s face, he was growing tense with every passing moment without a word by his friend. _Why the bloody hell doesn’t he talk to me?_

Slowly Sherlock got out of the car, brushing his black button-down shirt while walking to the driver’s side, where John held the door open, self-mockingly. Sherlock held his chin high stubbornly without saying a word. But when he wanted to climb into the car, John was standing in his way and didn’t intend to move. Sherlock huffed, “How am I supposed to drive if you’re not letting me into the car?”

John snorted. He hadn’t intended to have a row with his friend. Actually he wanted to talk calmly about what had happened the day before, when they got home. But it seemed he was too much emotionally swayed that he nearly caused an accident. A brief look at the rear window showed him that Emma was still sound asleep. He never wanted to have a row with anybody in front of his daughter, so why not getting over with it right now.

Since John hadn’t moved a bit, Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “You’re behaving irrational. Do you want me to drive, or not?”

“You know,” John sniffed, ignoring Sherlock’s question, “You’re quite unfair.” He got a tight grip of the door so the white of his knuckles were visible while Sherlock looked rather irritated at John. “You, with your deductions can tell immediately everything about everyone in less than a minute.” He loosened his grip to point a finger on Sherlock’s chest, “ _You_ know everything about _me_ … about _my_ past. But what do _I_ know about _you_?”

“You do know me.” Sherlock interrupted aghast. They knew each other for about five years. How could John say he didn’t know his friend?

“About your past!” John threw his hands helplessly into the air. “But you’d rather be a mystery.” Emphasizing the last word, his voice reached an octave higher, “You could’ve told my about Redbeard when you first mentioned him, then I wouldn’t have felt compelled to ask Mycroft.”

“You could’ve asked me.” Sherlock said reproachfully his own voice growing louder in the heat of the moment.

“And you would’ve replied?” John snorted sarcastically because he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t have replied any question about his past just like he failed to introduce his parents properly when they first met.

“Yes.”

“No!” John folded his arms in front of him. “No, you wouldn’t have because you don’t talk to me.”

“What do you mean?” The crease between his eyebrows deepened. “Of course I talk to you…”

“About cases,” interrupted John, nodding. “But you don’t really _talk_ to me, Sherlock.” Sniffing, he noticed that he grew calmer again, now that everything he wanted to say got out. Pursing his lips, he added sadly, “I just would’ve appreciated to hear that particular point of your past by yourself.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Even though their almost-accident had occurred in a small village fifty kilometers before London several cars which needed to pull around John’s car honked angrily because his car stood still in the middle of the street.

“This… us…” He shook his head slightly, “It’s not going to work like this, Sherlock.” John almost whispered.

But Sherlock sensed the meaning behind John’s word. Could it be a Freudian slip? If so, John was complete oblivious to it. A small grin tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. _Us!_ Why would his best friend suddenly argue about things he wasn’t so much interested before and then refer to _us_?

“You really want _us_ going to work?” Sherlock’s grin, slightly mischievous, widened, and all of a sudden John realized what he had just said, unfolding his arms and retreating a step, so he got Sherlock out of his personal space. But Sherlock didn’t give in and stepped forward.

“Oh come on,” John said unnerved, placing both his hands firmly on Sherlock’s chest to shove him out of the way so he could get to the passenger door. “Don’t be ridiculous.” But the reddening of his cheeks betrayed his frame of mind.

“Me?”, asked Sherlock mockingly, his grin stretching from ear to ear. _Gotcha!_ He thought amused. Otherwise, why would John be so upset?

An hour later they arrived at 221B. John was right with the thunderstorm. As soon as they stepped into the house a heavy rain started to soak London. Since their little row Sherlock’s mood has lifted again as an antagonism to the weather.

While Sherlock prepared a bottle for Emma, John bathed his little daughter. She loved bathing, swinging her arms to splash her daddy. Noticing that he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, his stomach rumbled reproachfully.

“Starving?” The sudden voice of Sherlock behind him made John jump.

“There’s nothing in the fridge, right?” John lifted Emma up from the bathtub, and Sherlock wrapped a towel around her little body.

“Thumbs.”

Taking Emma to the change table to put her into a sleeper with tiny pink hearts, he retorted, “Something edible? I’m not so much into _eyestea_.”

They laughed at the memory. “No, but I could order a pizza, if you want?”

“You not hungry?” asked John while Sherlock headed for the living room to call the delivery service. At least Sherlock hadn’t eaten anything all day.

“I’ll have a slice of yours.”

“That’s committing a theft.”

“Then punish me,” mumbled Sherlock while dialing the number.

“What?” John took the bottle from the kitchen table to give it a greedy sucking Emma.

“Nothing.”

The pizza service arrived just in time when Emma went into her very own dreamland in her cot. John put the pizza on a plate and set it on the coffee table. Sherlock hadn’t been able to read the newspaper the last three days, and the internet access with their mobiles was rather limited at his parents’ house, too. So he skimmed through the pages while John lunged for the pizza.

When Sherlock had finished reading, he took his promised slice. “Okay,” he began when the pizza was gone, “What do you want to know?” He put his legs onto the sofa, turning slightly so he could face John sitting in his armchair.

John knew that Sherlock wanted to continue their conversation from a few hours ago. _Everything_ , he thought. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for Redbeard’s death.” He said instead.

Sherlock frowned, “But it was my fault. If I hadn’t run away with him, he wouldn’t have been shot. I’d put him in danger; I’d been responsible for him.”

But that wasn’t the point, John knew. It was the motive. “That’s why you shut yourself away?”

“It was the logical consequence. Having no friends, distancing from family meant no hurt.” He looked down at his intertwined fingers in his lap.

John saw how difficult it was for his friend to talk about this, so he decided to drop the subject for now. “You really started to speak with four months?” Emma would get soon in the fourth month, and he couldn’t imagine what he would do when she suddenly would start to speak.

Nodding, Sherlock boasted, “Writing with two years.”

“I already know that.” John teased, not wanting to give in to Sherlock’s vanity.

“Yeah, because you’ve cheated. You’ve asked someone else.” He smiled, and the tension was gone. Then he got up in one swift move, his dressing gown waving elegantly. While John had tucked Emma in bed, Sherlock had already changed his suit for his pajama.

“I’m sorry.” John rubbed his hands on his knees.

“You said _us_.” Sherlock suddenly tossed in, slowly approaching John, who saw the danger coming.

He got up, rushing to the kitchen, “I’ll make us tea.” Filling the kettle with water, he tried to explain his choice of words. “I meant _us_ in _this_ situation, you know, sharing a flat, having a baby and all.”

“Not convincing.” The sudden voice behind John startled him, and a mug slipped from his hand into the sink with a loud clink. Turning around, he noticed that Sherlock was pinning him at the kitchen unit.

“Sherlock!” It was a warning; a warning not to overstretch their friendship, or whatever they had.

“I didn’t have the possibility to represent you my psychological experiment.” Sherlock was referring to the day when Mycroft interfered with his call.

John fidgeted slightly under the intense stare of his friend. He cleared his voice, “I actually don’t know if I would like your experiment.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not doing anything. You’re doing the experiment. I’ll just watch, collecting data.” He smirked slightly. “All you need to do is to close your eyes.”

Now, that confused John. “And you’ll do nothing?” He asked hesitantly, gripping the kitchen unit with his hands behind him to steady himself before the intruder of his personal space.

Shaking his head, Sherlock replied, “Nothing.”

“That’s a trick. One of your oh so funny jokes.” John laughed nervously.

“Nope. Just an experiment.” He bent slightly forward so the gap between their faces was reduced to the length of a hand. “An experiment in the kitchen. How appropriate.”

John watched Sherlock’s face for some signs of what he was up to. His eyes lingered a moment on his lips. Would Sherlock really go so far? His heart hammered rapidly in his throat, and he wasn’t sure whether that felt good or bad. He could just shove him away, saying that this was ridiculous as he had done in the afternoon. He was army trained even though Sherlock was taller and broader. “So I close my eyes, and you won’t do anything?” He repeated uncertainly his former questions.

“Yes.”

Licking his lips, he realized that he was curious himself. “Okay.” Nonetheless, Sherlock wouldn’t cave in until he got what he wanted, and he certainly wouldn’t cross the line because he was too much afraid of losing his best friend.

So John closed his eyes and darkness engulfed him.


	12. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is presenting his experiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

The odd thing about not being able to see, was, it sharpens all the other senses immediately; sense of taste, sense of smell, aural sense and tactile sense.

Sense of taste was pretty much irrelevant for Sherlock’s experiment but John nonetheless registered the remnants of his pizza on his tongue; spicy mixed with extra cheese.

His sense of smell was aware of the bitter flavor of the black tea he wanted to prepare. The flat itself had a typical scent which made John immediately feel at home as soon as he entered. And then there was the fresh and intensive odor of Sherlock’s eau de toilette and his shampoo, mingled with his very own soft body odor.

The aural sense told John that the water kettle boiled. With a click the switch went off. Then he heard the noise of the cars from down the street, the whirr of the fridge, the dripping of the faucet and the rustling of Sherlock’s dressing gown still standing close to John. _He’s moving a little_. Wondering what Sherlock was doing, John’s eyes fluttered a slit open just to see the blurry image of his friend still standing in front of him, slightly bent forward.

“No cheating!” Sherlock warned and the tactile sense immediately stepped in; the soft breath of the spoken words brushing John’s lips tentatively, feeling electrifying tickles with each syllable. Goosebumps rippled slowly from his neck down his spine, the impact of Sherlock’s baritone voice near his ear vibrating and making his belly aflutter.

John realized that he was holding his breath, gripping the kitchen unit even harder because he started to sway involuntarily. Closing his eyes again, he could see between his lashes the blurry ice-blue pools of Sherlock closing them slowly, too. And then the tickle of his breath became a soft touch which turned into releasing pulses which manifested into his inner core. He went out of oxygen and gasped, his lips slightly parting. Sherlock mimicked John’s movement, and the pressure increased instinctively.

Opening his eyes again, John looked shaken at his friend. His friend, his longtime _friend_ , his flatmate, his… _Oh my God!_

Sherlock’s heavy-lidded eyes opened slowly, looking back at John. For a moment they just stared at each other and then a shy smile curled around Sherlock’s lips.

“You’ve cheated!” John declared slightly out of breath.

Blinking confused, Sherlock replied aggrieved, “No.”

“You promised not to move.” John waggled a warning finger.

“I didn’t.”

“You’ve just kissed me.” John croaked out.

“I beg to differ,” Sherlock found a short grin, “But _you_ ’ve just kissed _me_.”

John’s eyes widened gradually at the realization. He had swayed, and thus had closed the gap between them until their lips met; consciously or unconsciously? Rolling his tongue over his lower lip, his eyes lingered curiously on Sherlock’s half-open mouth. So, Sherlock’s experiment implied to bring John out of his shell. He didn’t mind the kiss at all, didn’t mind the closeness as if it was something they always had shared. He still felt the humming of Sherlock’s words on his lips, and he needed to restrain his hand to touch the spot where their lips had met.

It was there, all the time, John had to acknowledge to himself. He had watched Sherlock features very closely several times unconsciously, contemplating why women felt attracted to him when he was all rude to them. Being jealous of Irene and Janine would tell him a few home truths but he was too much occupied in lying to himself than he could see the actual truth. That’s what Sherlock meant by his remark that John should stop lying to himself. _Dammit! He knew it from the very first time we met_.

“So?” Sherlock asked falteringly after a while, the corner of his mouth twitching into a shy smile again, and John noticed the sudden anxiety of his friend. Sherlock didn’t know what to do now. Remembering their previous conversations, John knew that Sherlock had never been in a relationship; probably that was his first kiss at all and now he stood forlorn in the middle of their kitchen, not knowing what to do next.

“You knew it all along, didn’t you?” John decided to ask another question to cover up his own uncertainty.

“Yes.” He folded his hands in front of him to hide his light tremble, avoiding John’s glance. “It was pretty obvious.”

“Then why haven’t you… earlier…” John shrugged helplessly.

“Because I thought nobody could ever like me. I was an idiot who thought that my work was all I needed.” Sherlock frowned, and John could tell that this revelation of his friend’s emotions was really hard for him to express. “Once I realized it, it was all too late. I needed to die in order to save you – Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, too. But when I returned you were already in a relationship.”

There was a moment of silence, and John needed to distract himself with something to prevent himself from staring to long at Sherlock. So he took the mug out of the sink to continue the preparing of the tea. “Do you know what that means? A relationship?”

Slightly disapproved by John’s question, Sherlock replied, “Of course I do.” Just because he never had any relationship didn’t mean he wouldn’t know how to make it work.

A crooked smile played around John’s lips. “You know, pouting for three days every once in a while is poison for a relationship.” He poured the hot water into their mugs. “A relationship includes dates outside of murder scenes like going out watching a movie in cinema or having dinner.”

“We’re having dinner a lot.” Sherlock interrupted reproachfully, as if he wanted to defense their relationship.

“No. I’m having dinner a lot. You just watch.”

“But if I’m not hungry.” Where was the sense in eating when someone wasn’t hungry anyway?

“It’s some kind of interaction, Sherlock. Why would we go out, having dinner with just me eating? That would be rather one-sided, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock opened his mouth but closed it again, rethinking, “Do you want me to say that I wouldn’t be able to get a relationship work?” There was a hint of reproachful hurt.

“No,” John began.

“Everyone around me had oh so fantastic relationships that they were ruined by either one of the party, but when it depends on me, everybody ask themselves if I’m really capable of having a healthy relationship?” Sherlock’s tone got clipped and he spoke very fast. “That’s exactly the reason why I shut myself out of the world; because people tended not to trust me.”

“I…” John stuttered. “I didn’t mean it that way.” He forced himself to hold a steady look to Sherlock’s eyes to reassure him. “We’re friends, Sherlock. Being more than that is a great step for both of us. We’re stepping beyond the crime scenes, having a private life, you know. God, we’re even having a child.” _Did that even sound coherent?_

But before Sherlock could answer, John’s mobile rang. “It’s Lestrade.”

“He’s been texting me since yesterday.” Sherlock said in annoyance. “I ignored him.”

“Hullo Greg.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He wanted John to ignore the DI, too. They were in the middle of a very important discussion. John’s heated expression turned into a frown while he listened to his friend. Then he handed the phone over to Sherlock. “You better talk to him.”

“Yes?” It was almost a hiss, when he put the mobile to his ear.

“I think we’ve a serial killer. It’s the third victim and we’re somehow stuck. Can you come over?” Lestrade sounded desperately. Wasn’t that exactly what John meant some minutes ago? A life beyond crime scenes? Then why did John answer the bloody mobile?

He blinked slowly, fixing John’s eyes. “Yes.” Maybe it was even better to leave their discussion now to cool their heads down either way. He tapped the button to end the call. With Emma sleeping upstairs, John couldn’t come along, he knew. “It’s probably a serial killer. They need help.”

John nodded understandingly. “It’s okay.”

Looking down at himself, Sherlock noticed that he had already changed and cursed under his breath. He was torn between a serial killer and John. “I… ah…” He pointed with his thumb backward to his bedroom, indicating that he needed to change his clothes again, and scurried away.

“The game is on,” whispered John sadly when Sherlock had bolted to his bedroom.

Some minutes later he rushed out of his room, shirttails brushing into his trousers while passing John, who still leant at the kitchen unit, sipping his tea. Sherlock grabbed his coat just in case the night would be colder than the day. Before leaving the flat, he turned to John from the kitchen door, “I’ll text you.” With this he meant, even though John couldn’t come along to a case he would stay in touch with him.

“Okay.”

Sherlock shot his friend a last confused look and headed downstairs eventually. John heard the footsteps on the creaking wooden stairs fading. He blew out his breath but then recognized the footsteps becoming louder again. Furling his brows, Sherlock suddenly stood in the kitchen door again with a grave face. He rounded the table, striding elegantly toward John and cupping his face to press an eager kiss on his lips.

It took John completely by surprise. This wasn’t anything compared to the soft brush of lips several minutes ago. His eyes widened at the moment, watching Sherlock’s brows drawn together over his closed eyes as if he was afraid of doing the wrong thing. John could barely breathe and needed to steady his balance by gripping Sherlock’s black shirt with his right hand. He just couldn’t tell if he was shoving him away or pulling him closer. Deciding for the latter, he tugged gently at the shirt and closed his eyes to part his lips slightly, sucking in some fresh air.

Encouraged by John’s pulling, he raked his left hand through the hair of the back of John’s head to increase the pressure. Parting his own lips, Sherlock probed his tip of the tongue timidly across John’s upper lip and earned a gasp of him. John’s other hand grabbed desperately Sherlock’s arm to keep himself of falling because he got the feeling that the floor started to shake. With Sherlock focusing on John’s upper lip, he decided to devote himself sucking at his bottom lip. A deep rumble escaped Sherlock’s throat, and he tasted boldly the mouth past John’s lips, the flavor of the black tea still lingering. Somewhere in the middle the tip of their tongues met and provoked an explosion of impulses which made each hair of their bodies stand erect.

With a last deliberate suck at John’s bottom lip, the kiss ended but their foreheads and noses kept touching, savoring the moment a little longer.

“Got it. You’ll text me.” John exhaled breathlessly, and Sherlock smiled.


	13. Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds Mycroft’s secret case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

Sherlock hailed a cab. The rain had stopped and while climbing into the black car, he avoided some broad puddles. He told the cabbie his destination, “New Scotland Yard.”

It was shortly after eight o’clock, and the city was still crowded with people heading home from a family gathering on Easter Monday. Sherlock’s eyes felt heavy and tired. The burning was just natural after being awake for almost forty eight hours. Of course he hadn’t slept last night after his eavesdropping of Mycroft and John. It was strange how something so annoying turned into something so good. He still felt the warmth of John’s lips on his own, even the taste of his black tea.

Usually he was all giddy with excitement when being on his way to a case but this time he was torn between this case and John. For a split-second he had even considered not to go. John leaving behind felt not right. He had looked so sad. But the kiss ripped every doubt apart. John would never allow Sherlock giving in to apathy, even when he couldn’t go with him because of Emma.

_You’re involved now_. Mycroft’s voice reverberated in his mind. _Look at you. Just one kiss and you start to doubt what you were doing for your entire life. Love isn’t only a dangerous disadvantage for the safety of the people you love but for yourself, too. Your brilliant mind needs food, otherwise you’d turn ordinary._

_Ordinary?_ Sherlock thought, an image of Moriarty popping up in his mind.

_That’s what John has implied. Ordinary people settle down. They don’t have so much time anymore to indulge themselves in their hobbies. You’ll soon get bored_. Sherlock knew that Mycroft wasn’t real but a rendition of his own thoughts and of what Mycroft told him several times before, especially when they were children.

_John’s different_. He thought resolutely. Mycroft would certainly never understand why people would get attracted to each other. He considered himself being married with the British government. That’s why Sherlock plunged into work, too. He had been mimicking his big brother who had taught him after Redbeard’s death that sentiments were for losers. In school both boys were outstanding and became an easy target for bullying. So they focused on each other, giving their intellectual hunger enough food. Never ever had Sherlock believed that he would find a friend, or even a partner with whom he could share his life. _John’s different. He’s the heart of us. He showed me to rely on my own heart eventually_.

The offices of Lestrade’s unit were almost empty given the holiday and time of day. He opened the door to the DI’s office without knocking. Sally Donovan was there, too, and obviously they had a disagreement over consulting Sherlock in this case.

Shooting Sherlock a derogatory glance, Donovan sighed, “Well, Greg, it’s your decision.” With this she left the office.

In front of Lestrade lay two manila folders on the table. Sherlock frowned, “You said there were three victims.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade sighed, getting up, “We think the third murder wasn’t intended.”

“Tell me.”

“The first victim,” Lestrade opened one folder to unveil two photos, “Jewgenij Tolstoi, 42, lived in Brentwoodsince 2002. He acquired the British citizenship 2003 and originated from Chelyabinsk, Russia. He was married but his wife died two years ago. No children.” Then he opened the second folder, showing an Asian in his mid-forties and a young girl. “The second victim, Masaki Watanabe, 46, from London, also acquired the British citizenship, but…” He flipped through the pages, “… since 1996, already. He lived in Tokyo before. The third victim was his 14 years old daughter Itsuki.”

“Why do you think the murder of Itsuki Watanabe was a coincidence?”

“Because she was killed differently. Both men were killed with a pointed but blunt item.” Lestrade showed Sherlock the pictures of the wounds.

_Most certainly the men weren’t killed by a knife_ , Sherlock concluded immediately. The stabbing wound looked peculiar, like a hole of about two centimeters in diameter. “Any clue about the weapons?”

“No, not a bit. We’ve found nothing, no remnants of dirt, metal or anything of help. There was just water.”

“Water?” Sherlock furled his brows.

“Yeah, we’ve checked it. Tap water. Some was oozing from the wounds, some was found on the floor.”

_That doesn’t make sense_. Of course Sherlock didn’t say that aloud because it would be a confession that he was clueless. “And the girl?” He took the photo of the forensics.

“A precise stab into her heart, but this time with a knife, a balisong most probably, according to the wound.”

_Why didn’t the murderer use the balisong for her father, too?_

“The thing is, all murders took place in public with people around them but no-one noticed anything.”

“CCTV cameras?” Sherlock was skimming through the files.

“There’s no footage.” Sherlock turned to Lestrade in disbelief. “They were simply shut off for around thirty minutes before and after the murder.”

“We need to find out with what weapon the murderer had killed the men. In connection with the balisong we’ll find the killer.” Sherlock took the manila folders to find a quiet place in the office to delve into the murders. “Why haven’t you contacted me earlier?” It sounded almost reproachful.

“Well, I tried. The first murder happened seven weeks ago, but the second one just occurred two days ago. I texted you several times but you didn’t answer until I called John.”

“Bad WiFi,” mumbled Sherlock, “We’ve been visiting my parents in Cornwall.”

“Oh.” Lestrade raised one eyebrow.

But Sherlock was immune to the DI’s connotation. “I’ll ask my brother regarding the CCTV cameras.”

“Do that. And ask him if he has some news of Mary Morstan.”

“What?” Sherlock swung around, and Lestrade flinched at the sharpness of his friend’s tone.

“She broke out of prison five weeks ago. Haven’t your brother told you?” Somehow, Lestrade got the feeling he had spilled a secret he shouldn’t have to.

Sherlock didn’t reply the DI’s question but stormed off to the conference room, fuming. Plunking the folders with a thud down onto the table, he cursed under his breath. “Damn you Mycroft!”

Furiously he scrolled through his contact list to give his brother a call.

“A call at this hour even after not bidding farewell to me? What could you possibly want, brother dear?” Sherlock could hear the smug smile.

“Mary Morstan.”

There was a moment of silence. “Well,” He clicked softly his tongue, “I thought it would be better for John not to know.”

Sherlock struggled for words because he caught Mycroft’s logic. John would truly be in a complete turmoil. “And you don’t have a clue where she is?” Sherlock’s voice sounded full of disbelief.

“No.” Mycroft sighed. “I actually believe this was long planned. She wanted the baby to be with John. That’s why they caught her in the first instance so fast. She hadn’t been really hiding. When she hit form again after birth, she broke out.”

Pressing his lips to a thin line, Sherlock realized appalled that it was up to him now to tell John. After their last conversation this could be an exodus for John’s emotional state. He didn’t think that Mary would show up at 221B. This was just too meticulously planned. She gave Emma to John, and now she was free to do what she wanted; probably going into hiding and just reappearing somewhere with a new identity. “You lied to John. For God’s sake, Mycroft, we were just on a family gathering the last two days.”

“I didn’t lie. I was just not telling. There’s a difference.” The elder brother defended himself.

Sherlock ground his teeth fretfully. It didn’t help but he needed to drop the subject. After tonight he had to decide if he would tell John the truth, or if he would dodge the subject like Mycroft did. “I need your help.”

“Oh?”

Rummaging through the folders for the crime scenes, he just said, “I need CCTV cameras footage of Heathrow Airport Terminal 5 of April 3rd and Westfield London of last Saturday, uncut.”

There was a short silence on the other end of the line. “For what?”

“A case.”

“Better stay away from that case.”

It took Sherlock a moment to comprehend the meaning of Mycroft’s words. _So that’s the case you were hiding_. “You know that I could have the servers hacked for the footage but that would be illegal so I just kindly ask one more time; I need that footage.” He paused shortly, and then added, “You do owe me a favor, Mycroft.” _For not telling John_.

Mycroft sighed exaggeratedly. “Fine.”

***

John got the text message around midnight.

_I found the case Mycroft was hiding. – Sherlock Holmes_.

Knowing very well that Sherlock would probably boast with his cocksure knowledge about his big brother for at least three days, John nonetheless smiled.

Actually John should have been in bed since ten o’clock given that he had to get up early in the morning for his first official day of work, but he was simply too emotionally charged.

The kiss lingered on his mind restlessly. He hadn’t expected that this kiss would feel so natural. Without seeing, he could barely tell the difference in kissing a woman, besides the tiny stubbles scratching softly at his chin. Remembering the gentle touch of Sherlock’s tongue on his own made him shiver with excitement, tossing sleeplessly in his bed.

When he drifted slowly into half-sleep it was suddenly Emma who decided against sleep. Groggily John tumbled downstairs to the kitchen, preparing a bottle. While his little daughter sucked contently at the nipple he watched her happily. For a split-second he had been disappointed of not being able to follow Sherlock into battle but now that Emma was awake, and he held her in his arm snugly, he regretted the thought. _There’ll be other occasions_ , he told himself. His daughter shoved the bottle away when she had emptied it, smiling at her daddy sweetly. He cuddled her at her shoulder waiting for the necessary burp, and then he went upstairs again, tucking her into the cot to bend down for a kiss.

Lying down in his own bed, he stared at the ceiling, watching the red digits projected onto the ceiling. 3:14 a.m. He went again into brooding mood. What now? With Sherlock’s weird experiment and his kiss, did this mean John would accept a physical relationship with his friend? Rolling onto his side, he wondered why Sherlock hadn’t come back yet. He was listening to every single sound from down the street; any cab which didn’t stop at the curb. A slight worry started to press the air out of his lung. Sherlock was prone to danger, as was John. Together they took care of each other but every time they were separated Sherlock died or was heavily injured. Why hadn’t he texted again?

A soft buzz beside his head indicated indeed an incoming message.

_I’m going to need your help with this case. – Sherlock Holmes._

_Where’re you? – John Watson._

_The Yard. – Sherlock Holmes._

_You need some sleep. Come home. – John Watson._ Was this his own selfish wish, _come home because I want you here_ , or did he wish it because Sherlock truly needed some sleep?

_I’m perfectly fine. I need you in the morgue after your work. – Sherlock Holmes._

So he wasn’t coming home this night. John rolled his eyes at his friend’s stubbornness.

_I bet you haven’t slept last night at all. You need some rest. – John Watson._

There was a short pause before the next message came in.

_I love you, too. – Sherlock Holmes_.

John almost dropped his mobile while reading these four words. Swallowing hard he decided against writing back. _Oh well, so he got what he wanted. Very clever, Sherlock_. He rolled onto his other side, finally succumbing to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve got a wrist tendonitis, so writing is a bit painful. Hopefully it cures quickly to keep the pace with my updates. Over ten years of writing and now this happens… *sigh*


	14. Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock digs into the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments :)

Sherlock spent half the night reading the forensic reports and social backgrounds of the murder victims. Usually he wasn’t so much interested in knowing who the victims were but in this case it seemed to be essential. Both men were immigrants because they found work at Britain. Both were married with British women after their immigration. _This cannot be coincidence._

In the early morning hours Sherlock received the requested footage by Mycroft. He used Lestrade’s laptop. The DI himself was sound asleep at his desk.

Tolstoi had been killed within the security zone of Heathrow Airport, so the murderer had to pass the security check and wasn’t able to bring a metal weapon with him. _Plastic?_ The victim came home from a trip from France and was waiting for his luggage at the baggage conveyor belt. Sherlock scanned the surrounding for anything of significance. There were few other people still impatiently waiting. Suddenly a man wrapped in a dark leather coat appeared from the corner. He watched Tolstoi intently. _He’s wearing a black haired wig_. Sherlock drew closer to the screen, narrowing his eyes. The quality of the footage was in high-res mode but the people were standing too far away, so the image of the man in his dark coat turned grainy and pixelated when he zoomed in. The man drew slowly closer to Tolstoi, and seemingly he started to talk with his victim, shaking hands. Then things started to happen very fast. The murderer stood with his back to the camera, he drew Tolstoi to him as if he wanted to hug him but Sherlock could see the terror in his eyes when the man stabbed with his unknown weapon into Tolstoi’s throat, the hollow between his collar bones. The victim wasn’t able to scream, so the murderer just held him in his deadly embrace. No-one noticed. Then the man shoved his victim backwards to a bench and sat him down. At this moment Tolstoi was most certainly dead already. He slumped down, and the killer just went away. It took almost five minutes for the other people to recognize that Tolstoi wasn’t drunk or sleeping but dead. And Sherlock could see why. After five minutes a sudden bleeding was visible at Tolstoi’s throat. _Why just after five minutes?_

Sherlock leant backwards, frowning. The missing weapon would be the clue to lead them to how the murder occurred. Putting steepled hands under his chin, he re-watched the footage, hoping to find any hint but there wasn’t anything to be found.

Turning his attention to the second footage, he perceived the familiar surroundings of Westfield London. He sighted Watanabe and his daughter at the first floor. As it seemed he was shopping for his daughter, carrying shopping bags with hip labels for girls. At some point he seemed to be more interested in a cigarette and separated from his daughter who went on with her shopping tour, while he looked for a place to wallow in his vice. Sherlock had already spotted the man with his shoulder-length black hair and his black leather coat. He was observing father and daughter for a while. _He has no interest in killing the girl_ , Sherlock thought and shared Lestrade’s opinion.

It was the same procedure he used on Tolstoi only with lesser possible witnesses around. With his back to the camera he stabbed Watanabe into the throat, only this time his daughter arrived at the scene. At first she was oblivious to what had just happened but when she realized the murder the tall man whipped his balisong out and with a precisely targeted cut to the girl’s heart, she slumped to the ground. There weren’t people within a distance of thirty meters around them, so the murderer just walked away again without being noticed by anybody.

After watching the footage several times again, Sherlock threw the head in his neck and closed his eyes, imagining the scenario again whereas he was the victim. The murderer pulled the weapon from inside of his coat. According to the small gap between victim and killer, the weapon could have had a length of thirty centimeters maximum. The dark haired man was quite tall, so he stabbed only slightly from below into the hollow between the collarbones. But Sherlock could tell from his movement that he didn’t withdraw the unknown weapon. The killer made just a quick, sharp move to the side with his hand, as if he snapped the weapon off; like the hilt breaking off the blade. But that didn’t make sense because there was no blade to be found in the body’s throat afterwards. He cursed under his breath for not being present when they found the body. Hoping that John would have any idea on the wounds, another urgent question pushed into his mind; why did the Yard get only the censored version? Someone had deleted the murders from the footage later. But why? A cover up for the murderer? Somehow he got a bad feeling, working against Mycroft.

***

John groaned when the alarm woke him at six o’clock. Emma was still sound asleep in her cot. So he let her sleep, having a shower first. He hadn’t heard anything from Sherlock since the messages around three o’clock, so he presumed that his friend wouldn’t come home for a morning nap. John shook his head in disbelief at Sherlock’s health care.

Giving Emma her bottle, he had his own tea and breakfast. Because Sherlock wouldn’t come home, he needed to ask Mrs. Hudson for babysitting. It was the first work day of the week so the surgery was crowded with patients. Most of them had caught a cold because they had underestimated the first warm weather of the year.

He needed to work until one o’clock, and the illnesses of his patients were rather dull. Luckily he had a picture of Emma with him this time, decorating his desk proudly. During a tonsillitis his mobile buzzed indicating an incoming message. A cursory glance at the display showed him Sherlock’s name. _What could he want?_ But he needed to push that thought aside, waiting for the patient to finish her medical report. Unfortunately patients around the age of seventy years had always long stories to tell. John fidgeted slightly in his seat, not being able to know the content of the message made him all flustered. Hastily he gave the older woman a prescription and almost shoved her out of the door, diving headlong onto his mobile on his desk. _That wasn’t decent_ , he scolded himself. Since when did a message from Sherlock throw him into such a dither?

_Don’t come to the morgue. We’ve an appointment with the widow of one victim. Her address is near your surgery. I’ll pick you up at 1 p.m. – Sherlock Holmes._

A slight flutter manifested in his stomach but he tried to ignore it as well as he could. It was a mix of nervousness and anticipation at the same moment. With the kiss lingering in his head there was an unspoken truth between them. They would need to talk about that for sure but they were in the middle of a case now, so there was no time to discuss their relationship.

When he left the surgery Sherlock were already waiting for John outside. John smiled at his friend, and even Sherlock’s façade crumbled slightly in returning the favor to John in public. They just stood there for a moment, not knowing how to proceed now. Usually Sherlock would start his striding gait to the next destination without waiting for John, and John would wordlessly follow. But this time it was different. Sherlock seemed shy, and he wouldn’t dare to kiss John a second time without having his full consent.

“So?” John cleared his voice awkwardly, “Where’re we going?”

“The second street to the left.” Sherlock pointed with his finger the direction and started to walk. He was hesitant in his steps, waiting for John. Avoiding his long strides he let John decide the pace. Sherlock gave John a folder with all the necessary information and threw light on the three murders.

“And there were no weapons found?” John asked absent-mindedly, studying the forensic photos of the gaping wounds.

“No.” Sherlock came to an abrupt halt, looking uncertain. John walked on for two steps, still studying the report until he noticed his friend had stopped and turned around, tilting his head questioningly. Sherlock seemed to consider something he could hardly express because his eyes wandered unfocused over John’s head. “How… er… was your day?”

John’s eyes widened at the question. He could barely contain himself from laughing out loud. This question from Sherlock was so out of his character. He smiled warmly instead at the effort Sherlock was making in socializing. “You know, that question would have been nice when I came out of the surgery.”

Sherlock furled his brows pensively but before he could answer in mild disappointment, John cupped Sherlock’s elbow gently to shove him to the front door of their client. “Never mind.” He squeezed reassuringly, “I don’t want you to change your behavior. I got too well used to you being all obnoxious than I want you to change that now.” John chuckled at Sherlock’s indignant expression.

“Obnoxious?”

“You referred with this attribute to yourself, once.” With this he rang the doorbell, and Sherlock had no time to interrupt his friend any further because Mrs. Watanabe opened the door several seconds later.

The widow was in her early forties and according to her eyes she had cried far too much the last days. Lestrade had called her to prepare her for an upcoming visit by two colleagues. She led the couple of assumed specialists into the living room.

“It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Watanabe,” Sherlock began, folding his hands, “That you spare some of your precious time.” John could immediately tell that Sherlock was up to something because acting like this truly reminded him of his often proclaimed self as a sociopath. He was using just polite empty phrases without any empathy for the widow. John didn’t blame him for being like this because in Sherlock’s mind the people didn’t count, only the murders. Thus it was John’s part to take care of the victims or bereaved people.

“This is Dr. John Watson, he’s our psychologist.” John shot him an annoyed look, clearly not approving Sherlock’s plan. “Please tell him all you know while I search the flat for any clues.”

Mrs. Watanabe looked slightly distressed, “But the police already left a mess two days ago.”

“I won’t leave a mess.” Sherlock patted the shoulder of the widow awkwardly. “I’m not such an amateur.” With this he smiled and started to scan the room.

“So,” John started to play his part, not knowing what he could possibly ask. “Is there something conspicuous you haven’t already told the police?”

Thinking, the widow looked down at her coffee table whereon lay some papers regarding Mr. Watanabe’s pension. She had to announce the death of her husband to several institutes. “Well,” she began slowly, “There is something weird. I called the Japanese pension scheme today but I was told that there didn’t exist a Masaki Watanabe combined with his date of birth and birth-place.”

John frowned, _as if he never lived?_ “Can we have a copy of those papers and his birth certificate?”

Mrs. Watanabe nodded. Sherlock, meanwhile, drew his attention to the bedroom. Without touching anything he looked around. Kneeling down he took a closer look under the bed but there was just the clean parquet floor. Sherlock frowned, _the flat is over-clean_. He also checked the bathroom but didn’t find what he was looking for. Returning to the bedroom, he narrowed his eyes at the bed, _Mrs. Watanabe isn’t the type for cleaning too much_ , Sherlock had deduced according to her appearance. _Maybe her husband was_. He knelt down again, feeling with his hand for any flaw in the expensive parquet floor. After rounding the bed like this, he actually found a light bump.

“What’re you doing?” Mrs. Watanabe’s voice came from behind, looking at Sherlock incredulously.

“Help me with it, John.” He indicated that he needed help to shift the heavy oaken bed. Together they pushed it forward until the bump was visible. It was an edge of a parquet slat protruding from the floor slightly. Sherlock fingered at the bump until he could lift the slat and revealed a small hole not broader than a thumb. He produced his leather bag with the magnifying glass and tool kit. Taking the tweezers, he carefully put it into the hole to bring forth a memory stick.

Mrs. Watanabe watched with widened eyes, gasping, “What’s this?”

Sherlock smiled triumphantly, “I have no idea.” Rising from the floor, he let the stick fall into the inside pocket of his coat. “But I think we’re finished so far.” He headed for the door without any further explanation.

“Sherlock?” John’s cautious voice made him turn around.

A look at his friend, and Sherlock could hear the words of John sounding in his head, _You need to explain_. “Ah… um… The other victim’s flat was broken up and ransacked after the murder. The burglar was obviously looking for something small. Of course we don’t know if anything was stolen afterwards because the first victim lived alone. Both victims shared too many similarities so I concluded that Mr. Watanabe might have hidden something, too.” With this he beckoned with the memory stick in front of his audience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I feel obliged to say something: I’m usually rubbish at writing crime fiction but I needed to come up with this huge case as a plot device and for the end of my story. So I hope not to make too many mistakes, especially the upcoming forensic stuff regarding biochemical investigations.


	15. Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock experiences jealousy again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

They were sitting in the cab with St. Bart’s for destination. Sherlock was looking outside, chewing his bottom lip pensively. Suddenly John’s hand appeared in front of his face in a demanding request, “The memory stick, please.”

Sherlock creased his forehead but eventually handed the stick over because he trusted his friend. John turned the stick in his hand, looking for any clues. It was black without a single scratch or writing on it. Of course this reminded him of Mary’s flash drive only she had letters written on it – A.G.R.A.; whatever that meant. The data on the drive neither explained the meaning nor did Mary reveal it in court. John didn’t believe that these letters were her initials. And then there was the other drive, the one Sherlock gave Moriarty. John frowned at the thought.

“I’ll have a look at the body but then I want to go home.” It sounded harsher than intended; probably an old habit of army times.

Looking irritated, Sherlock finally drew his eyes from the window to John, “But the stick…”

“Can wait.” John interrupted before Sherlock would nail him down with a gush of words to defend himself. “You’re a mess, Sherlock.” He sighed. “Have you seen yourself in a mirror? Your eyes are all red because you haven’t slept in three days. Am I right?” Sherlock grunted disapprovingly but John wouldn’t let him sink into pouting mode. “Your eyes can barely fix, and even your speaking sounds more like a drunk.”

“Nonetheless I found that memory stick.” Sherlock folded his arms, sulking.

“Doctor’s advice; after the morgue we’re heading home and you’ll rest. And that’s that!” John put the memory stick into the inside pocket of his jacket to be sure that Sherlock didn’t get a hand at it. He really looked like a mess. His brain might be still working but his body needed sleep and probably a proper meal.

Sherlock huffed exaggeratedly and turned his look again outside. But he couldn’t resist watching John secretly from the corner of his eyes. He had a stern expression; probably he was just worrying about Sherlock. John could be gruff when he was worrying. Usually Sherlock didn’t understand his friend’s care and interpreted it as patronizing, so he turned into his insulting self, ignoring John for a while. Sherlock propped an elbow against the window frame, his hand obscuring his mouth, and therefore an incipient smile. John was truly worrying about him. It was the first time that it struck him like a lightning, and his smile just broadened. _Maybe I can convince him to stay by my side?_ He thought half-heartedly.

Twenty minutes later they arrived at St. Bart’s morgue. Molly had a day off, so they needed to be content with her substitute. For John this was easier to accept than for Sherlock. The black haired woman was in her early thirties, she had long hair tied up to a ponytail, her green eyes laughing all the time at John.

“Here we’re.” She announced when they got to the table where the body of Mr. Watanabe lay. She handed the file over to John, being in a flirtatious mode; Sherlock furled his brows angrily and gaped at the scene indignantly.

John flipped the white blanket to the navel. He had never gotten used to the smell of dead, so he inhaled slowly to steady himself again. Inspecting the wound with his gloved hands carefully, he shook his head in disbelief. The wound itself looked like a hole; something that a lance could have caused. But there had to be any residues left, whatever the surface of the weapon had been. And why the water? Tap water. According to the footage Sherlock had seen, the murderer neither withdrew the weapon nor did he use a syringe or anything else to put water into the wound. Why would the murderer put water into the wound anyway? Maybe he syringed the residues of the weapon’s surface out of the body?

“That doesn’t make sense.” Pulling off the gloves, he had another look at the file.

“So you don’t think he syringed the wound?” Molly’s substitute tossed the question in.

Sherlock replied petulantly to the intruder of his’ and John’s work. “Of course not. Otherwise we would’ve found residues of the weapon in the water on the ground, would we?”

The woman looked taken aback, frowning. John arched his brows in understanding. Sherlock got a point. “Sorry to say this, Sherlock, but as long as we don’t have a fresh body we’re rather stuck here.”

Pressing his lips to a thin line, Sherlock stamped his foot like a sulky child and started to pace back and forth. The black ponytail looked irritated at Sherlock, leaning to John, “Well, while your assistant is having his fit, fancy a cup of coffee?”

If looks could kill, Molly’s substitute would definitely be dead the moment Sherlock’s glare met her. He even didn’t mind so much the remark of being John’s assistant but on top of it inviting him to a coffee let his nostrils flare furiously.

“Let’s get home, John. I’m tired.” He shoved between the woman and John jealously, grabbing the folders and John’s briefcase. When John didn’t move but staring at him open-mouthed, Sherlock gripped John’s hand to drag him out of the morgue. There was no reason to stay there anyway. John made his point, he needed a fresh victim.

“What was that?” John laughed slightly embarrassed while Sherlock hailed a cab.

“What was what?” Sherlock feigned cluelessness, hoping that John would drop the subject.

Sherlock being clueless was too rare to be believable, thought John, shaking his head. “You behave like a jealous idiot.”

“Yes. Of course I do.” Sherlock replied honestly, still clutching John’s briefcase to his chest.

“You’re quite possessive.”

“You too. Remember Irene, Janine?”

Well, thinking of Janine made him shudder. He didn’t believe it was jealousy but felt rather nauseated by her all around Sherlock. It didn’t even make it any better after he had known that it was all a game for Sherlock. Irene had been different; he admitted that he was jealous of her because he believed that Sherlock really had fallen for her. They were evenly matched.

Enlightenment struck John. He had been jealous but he hadn’t thought about it as possessiveness. “Jealousy and possessiveness is quite another cup of tea.”

Stepping into the cab, Sherlock replied flatly, “No it’s not. The one requires the other.” John furled his brows and followed Sherlock into the black car. “Actually I was glad that you were jealous.”

“You were?”

“Yes.” Sherlock locked his pale blue eyes with John. “It meant that you cared much more for me than you would have admitted.” Then a mischievous grin played at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, “Despite that, that girl had only a one-night stand in mind. How pathetic.”

Shuddering at the thought, John threw his hands up helplessly, “Oh, shut up!” And Sherlock rumbled a laugh at his friend’s embarrassment.

As soon as the cab was put into motion, Sherlock’s eyes closed, and he finally succumbed to sleep. After the short drive to 221B John paid the cabbie and shook gently Sherlock’s shoulder, “Wake up.”

“Hmmmmm?”

Sherlock didn’t even blink let alone that he would get out of the car. John was at a loss. He knew that he couldn’t wake his friend when he was in his comatose sleep. He had tried it once, without success. “Come on, Sherlock.” He shook him more severely. “I can’t carry you upstairs. You’re way too tall.”

The cabbie shot the pair of men a wary look, probably thinking that Sherlock was drunk and hoping he wouldn’t vomit into his car. “John?” Sherlock slurred, quite not getting where he was.

“We’re home. Let’s get you to bed.”

Sherlock more or less tumbled out of the car, while John hurried after him. Supporting his friend by grabbing his elbow he led him upstairs. Mrs. Hudson greeted them with a S _sh!_ Emma was sleeping on the couch, secured by two cushions; her late afternoon nap, John noticed. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Hudson.”

Meanwhile, Sherlock struggled with his coat to shrug it off, moving in a circle. Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow at the sight. “Is he drunk?”

John chuckled, “No. He just hasn’t slept for three days.”

“Oh, that again.” Mrs. Hudson scolded. “Well then, I have to go. I have a date later.” With this she winked and went downstairs.

Sherlock was still fighting with his coat. Somehow his jacket got entangled with the coat at the sleeves and he just couldn’t shrug them off. After a glance to Emma who was still deep in slumber land, John offered, “Shall I help you?”

Nodding, Sherlock surrendered to his coat. John just opened the button to his jacket and took off coat as well as jacket in one move. If he hadn’t been too tired, Sherlock’s eyes had twinkled playfully.

“You want something to eat?” John looked at heavy-lidded red eyes.

“No.” Sherlock stalked stiffly to his bedroom.

John checked again the cushions around his daughter to make sure she wouldn’t roll off the sofa. Then he shrugged his own jacket off and went to the kitchen preparing a sandwich, when he heard a thud coming from Sherlock’s bedroom. He stopped his doing and listened for any further noises. But images of Sherlock getting injured by falling off his bed had settled in his mind. _Great! I’ve got two children. Maybe I should secure him with cushions, too_. He put the knife down and went to knock at the bedroom door. When no answer came, he peeked through the door.

Sherlock had changed into his pajama but obviously hadn’t made it into bed. He lay sound asleep in front of the bed on the wooden floor wrapped in his duvet. John sighed, walking over to his friend. “Sherlock?” Again he shook his shoulder, placing the duvet back onto the bed.

“Jus’ lemme sleep,” Sherlock slurred.

“But not on the floor. Come on.” He put his arms around his friend’s torso and heaved him with quite an effort onto the bed and put the duvet over him. When he got up to leave Sherlock, John felt a slight tug at his arm. Sherlock had got hold of his sleeve, “Jus’ stay for a while?”

John felt his ears reddening. He thought of Emma but she was sleeping as well, and if she would wake up he would hear her. Anyway, he had begun this. If Sherlock would have been indifferent to John, he wouldn’t have gone into his bedroom to look if everything was alright. But he had gone and now he could just stay a little longer. So he sat down onto the duvet, leaning at the head of the bed with his back. Sherlock rolled onto his side and snuggled slightly closer, snaking his arm around John’s hip.

John tensed in the first place, noticing how heavy a human arm could be but relaxed eventually. “Possessive, huh?” He smirked.

Grunting approvingly, Sherlock smiled. Then he fell into a dead sleep. John watched his friend a while, mesmerized by his even breathing. The mop of his curls tickled slightly at his hand. Even after three days he could still make out the fresh scent of Sherlock’s shampoo. One unruly strand had fallen on his closed eye, and without thinking John put the dark curl back to where it belonged, briefly stroking through the softness.

While sleeping Sherlock’s usual sharp features had softened. _How can he look so impossibly young, while he’s in his mid-thirties?_ Even though there wasn’t a big age difference, John felt suddenly old a bit. His hand wandered absent-mindedly from his hair to his flawless face, tracing the distinctive cheekbone with his finger down to his jaw, and then his thumb brushed softly over his lips. The lips he had kissed, and which had kissed him. Realizing what he was doing, he suddenly withdrew his hand startled.

His heart increased its rhythm in that moment. His eyes still lingered at the spot where his hand had just roamed. John admitted despite his internal struggle that he just wanted to kiss those lips the moment he came out of the surgery this day.

From the living room he heard a silent whimper indicating that Emma was awakening. Carefully he lifted Sherlock’s arm to put his hand next to his face but his friend just rolled onto his back, giving better access to his face, as John noticed. Meanwhile, his heart hammered rapidly in his throat and he swallowed to ease the dizzy feeling. Sherlock neither would perceive it nor would he remember it. So John lowered his face slowly, blushing hard at kiss raping his friend. His lips were so soft. Somehow John had always imagined the lips of men rougher. Brushing softly along the rosy skin, he didn’t get any response by Sherlock besides the deep breath exhaling, leaving tiny tickles on John’s face.

When he broke the kiss, his eyes lingered on Sherlock’s face a few seconds longer, having butterflies in his stomach. Then Emma’s whimper passed into a louder babble-like complaining, and he got up.


	16. Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is quite astonished at his own deductions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

After not seeing his daughter for almost a whole day, he relished the few remaining hours with her. Since last week she could roll from her back onto her stomach, squeaking with pleasure when she did so, but then wailing when she noticed that she was stuck and couldn’t roll back. And she perfected the splutter with her mouth producing tiny bubbles, not to mention the utterly important new ability of hiding her fist in her mouth.

“You’re teething, sweetheart.” He nudged her nose gently and earned an honest smile. After being home for a few months, it felt odd to leave her with someone else. He had missed her but at the same time he also enjoyed plunging into work again; especially work with Sherlock. “What do you think about having two daddies?” First she looked earnest at John, a thin thread of drool running down her chin but eventually she smiled again. “Shall I take that as a yes?” He returned the favor and scooped her up from the floor, cuddling her close to his shoulder.

Solving crimes with Sherlock was always fun, a dangerous fun, he must acknowledge to himself. Sherlock pointed several times out that John was seeking danger, like bees round a honeypot. What if something would happen one day? What would become of Emma? He didn’t want to think of it now but he knew that he must revert to it at a later time.

After bathing and feeding Emma, John tucked her into her cot upstairs, and found himself in the living room alone again, like the day before. Then he remembered that he still had the memory stick in his jacket. Retrieving it from the inside pocket, he lounged into his armchair and started his laptop.

Unfortunately the data was protected by a password. John cursed under his breath. First he tried _Itsuki Watanabe._

_Access denied!_

Maybe the name of his wife?

_Access denied!_

He furled his brows, annoyed at his ignorance. The one and only password cracker of this flat was sound asleep in his bed. _You don’t see! Because you fail to observe!_ John scolded at himself. _Observe!_

There was one thing in Watanabe’s flat, John remembered quite vividly but only because he had a comrade in his unit who was into Japanese literature. In Watanabe’s bookshelf stood a great number of Japanese books which titles John couldn’t read due to the kanji-rendering. But there were all books by Haruki Murakami in English, too. They had looked old and well used. Probably he had read them several times to improve his English skills when he came to Britain. So John tried _Haruki Murakami_. No. The other way around, _Murakami Haruki_.

_Access granted!_

John arched his eyebrows in surprise, and a lot of folders appeared on the screen. He couldn’t believe it. He had cracked a password without the help of Sherlock show-off Holmes. Now he couldn’t await the next morning to boast in front of Sherlock for the first time.

While skimming through the folders, he noticed that there were folders written in Japanese and English, as if they had been translated. He found many certificates and documents. One file contained the birth certificate and ID card of Masaki Watanabe, but after opening the next file John narrowed his eyes doubtfully. The ID card showed Mr. Watanabe’s picture but the name, birth place and date of birth were completely different; Akira Koizumi.

“Wait! This isn’t Masaki Watanabe, that’s Akira Koizumi. That’s why his wife was told there didn’t exist an entry for Masaki Watanabe.” Even though he was alone, he spoke his thought aloud. So the first thing to do in the morning was to call the Japanese pension scheme to ask about Akira Koizumi.

It was past midnight when John had finished reading all the papers on the memory stick. According to his own deductions he was pretty sure that Akira Koizumi went into witness protection program in 1996. Unfortunately there was another password secured folder, named _Exchange_. John had tried various passwords but failed. Being too tired, he gave eventually up and headed for his own bed.

When the sunrays started to brighten his curtains so that the whole room was flooded in sunlight, he woke with a start, sitting straight in his bed and blinking the sleep away. Why hadn’t Emma woken up yet? A worried look to her cot showed him that it was empty. Relieved he fell back onto his pillow. Surely, Sherlock had taken her while John was deep sleeping. Reluctantly he stretched the tiredness off to finally swing his legs out of his bed, heading downstairs.

“Oh, that’s nasty!” John heard Sherlock’s voice from the living room, hoping that his friend didn’t show Emma gross pictures of dead people on the laptop.

When John entered the room, rubbing the stiffness off his neck, he saw Sherlock’s dilemma.

“Why can’t you go on the potty?” He mumbled, fighting with a full nappy while John leaned at the doorframe, watching amused.

“She can’t even sit yet, that’s why.” John replied for his daughter, who seemed to find the situation utterly hilarious.

“Good morning.” Sherlock greeted, withholding Emma to put a foot into her mouth while he struggled to apply a new nappy. “I thought you might have wanted to sleep a little longer.”

“I thought the same of you.” John headed for the kitchen to prepare breakfast. “I didn’t expect you to get up before midday.”

Finally Sherlock won the nappy-battle and put Emma a clean pink romper on. Then he took her into his arm striding in elegant dance-like steps toward the kitchen, making the little girl giggle. While putting the dishes on the table, John passed Sherlock and stopped for a quick kiss at Emma’s chubby cheek. Sherlock had a glint in the eyes as if he had wished for the same but either John ignored it or truly didn’t get it.

“I’ve read the data of the memory stick.” John declared as matter-of-factly as possible. “It was password protected.”

A smug smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips. “Murakami Haruki.”

“Yes… what?” John turned abruptly, putting the mugs rather noisily on the table. “How could you possibly know that?”

“After five years, you’re still asking me that question?”

“You know what,” feeling disappointed, John waved a hand listlessly, “Forget it.”

Sherlock took the little girl into both of his hands, holding her in front of him, “Emma, I think you can be very proud of your daddy because he eventually has learned to observe.”

Noticing that this was probably the highest compliment he would get by Sherlock, John let the subject drop, “Have you read it yet?”

“No.”

John filled Sherlock in while they took their breakfast. “I was going to call the Japanese pension scheme later for confirmation on Akira Koizumi, while you can try your luck with this _Exchange_ named folder.”

“Save the trouble.” Sherlock put in, fighting Emma’s little hands off his toast. “Mycroft will give us the information.”

“I thought he was rather hiding the case.”

“He did. And with the witness protection program I guess he’s very well informed. The question is why he doesn’t want us to be involved?” Sherlock frowned.

“I don’t know,” John considered absent-mindedly, “What if Mycroft has his reasons, and we really should stay away from that case.” Then his eyes focused warily on Sherlock. “You know what happened when you cracked that code for Irene Adler.”

Reminded of his failure back then, his glance darkened, and he added stubbornly, “Mycroft’s not to be trusted, John.”

“Because of your silly feud?” Why did conversations with Sherlock get an about-turn, when someone didn’t concur with him?

“No.” Sherlock replied fretfully, “Because he also hid, Mary being on the run.”

John mouth opened as if he wanted to say something before the words of Sherlock struck his mind. Pausing, he took a sharp intake of breath, “What?”

“She broke out of prison about five weeks ago, according to Mycroft.”

“Mycroft knew it when we visited your parents, and didn’t tell me?” John glowered, being disappointed about Sherlock’s brother. They had talked to each other, talked about Redbeard and Sherlock; he could have mentioned Mary. Somehow, John had assumed that Mycroft had finally started to trust John with private matters. His eyes snapped to Sherlock, “Since when do you know?”

“Since the day before yesterday.”

The day, they had kissed, John remembered. “Why haven’t you told me instantly?”

Slightly taken aback, Sherlock didn’t get why John’s anger turned now toward him. He could understand why John was upset concerning Mycroft and Mary, but not him. “Neither did I want to tell you this at phone nor text you.” He replied a bit sarcastically.

John seemed to notice the edginess of his friend and realized his own false petulance; it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. He held his breath and counted silently, “Do you think she might show up?” It was kind of a desperate whisper.

“No.” Sherlock’s own voice felt hoarse at John’s distress. “Mycroft told me that they don’t know where she is. And I actually believe that this was well planned – she might even have had an accomplice to break out – and I think we won’t see her again. She wouldn’t risk the safety of her child.”

John cast his eyes down, looking at his breakfast but he suddenly didn’t feel hungry anymore. “Excuse me.” He stood up and headed for the bathroom.

Sherlock, unable to cope with such a load of emotions, was left in the kitchen, staring into nothing. He knew that John still had feelings for Mary, maybe not love anymore but nonetheless feelings which still were strong enough to not hate her. And as stupid as it was Sherlock still was jealous of Mary, and this was one reason to not tell John immediately the truth; the other reason was, that he had been afraid of hurting John. Feeling John’s pain, Sherlock was at a loss. How could he comfort him?

John took a shower. He wanted to be on his own because he feared he could start a row with Sherlock about Mary’s motives. Surely she didn’t want to risk their daughter’s life, whatever persons their clients were, but above all she didn’t want to risk her own safety. So she had chosen to run away. And he was so angry with her now because John had always assumed to have a place he could refer to when Emma would ask about her mother. So Emma could decide on her own, if she wanted to see her mother. But now Mary had taken even that from him. Her decisions were all of selfish nature. Desperate tears mingled with the hot water from the shower when he thought about Emma. Mary had burned a hole in their daughter’s life which John couldn’t close alone. He could just hope that Sherlock would somehow fit in.

Dressed in a bathrobe, John found Sherlock and Emma in the living room. Sherlock was about to call Mycroft for the necessary information regarding their case, and Emma lay on the floor under a wooden activity gym. John looked in disbelief because he hadn’t seen that toy before.

As if Sherlock could have read John’s mind, he explained flatly before calling Mycroft, “I bought it last Friday. It stimulates babies’ motor skills.”

John knelt down to Emma who was fascinated by a small bell hanging over her face. John looked at Sherlock in amazement, who just started to instruct Mycroft about what they needed. He had never expected from Sherlock to buy a gift for Emma. Then he remembered their conversation a couple of months ago when he had told Sherlock, about how a baby would turn their lives upside down, about how they had to make compromises, and about how Sherlock had no idea of that at all.

How wrong he was. Until now Sherlock was quite the perfect parent for Emma. John got up again, drawing slowly closer to Sherlock who just had finished the call. John stopped in front of him, while Sherlock looked a little clueless at his friend because he was still uncertain about John’s emotional state. All the more he was surprised when John put his hand at the nape of Sherlock’s neck to pull him down for a kiss, while his other hand was splayed on his chest to balance himself, feeling Sherlock’s increasing heart rate.

The kiss was chaste, a gentle open-mouthed touch of lips to lips. Somehow, John didn’t have the courage to give in to his instincts. Probably he was just too shy. Sherlock on the other hand was too much surprised as even to close his eyes and relished the moment to watch John breaking down his walls.

“I thought you were angry with me?” Sherlock asked when John let go of his lips.

“I was.” John confessed, “But you made amends.” He smiled while Sherlock looked at him questioningly, but John wanted to leave him clueless as kind of revenge and hoping one day Sherlock would figure it out by himself. “What did Mycroft say?”

“He’ll send the documents regarding Watanabe and calls me later.”

“What about Tolstoi?”

“They didn’t have a clue about Tolstoi because they hadn’t something to go on until now.” He smiled smugly. “He’ll check the witness protection program of 2002.” After a short pause he added, his smile broadening, “I told him you cracked the password, and I could literally hear him gawking.”

The mental image made them laugh.


	17. Quid Pro Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are having a nice day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

While Sherlock read all the folders except _Exchange_ , John got dressed. He wore dark blue jeans with a brown checkered button-down shirt and a thin brown cardigan. Crossing the room, he scooped Emma up on his way and closed Sherlock’s laptop on the desk. The detective, who was trying desperately to crack the password, looked irritated ready to protest most histrionically but John put a warning finger up to silence him.

“It’s such a lovely day. Let’s go to the park.”

“The park is dull.” Sherlock crossed his arms, raising one eyebrow.

“It’s my day off, and I don’t want to laze around in the flat with Emma.” John explained appellatively. “You can take the laptop with you and work outside.”

Sherlock agreed eventually and went for his own bedroom to change his clothing. He preferred, as always, a black two-piece suit with his favorite purple shirt.

“I don’t get why you prefer to wear an uncomfortable suit instead of some casual wear.” John mumbled while pushing the baby carriage.

“It’s not uncomfortable at all.” Sherlock explained decidedly. “I’m using it as an armor. Ordinary people are judging me in these clothes as arrogant, aloof and sometimes choleric. So they leave me alone the first moment they cast an eye on me.”

“Why do you want that?” They crossed a street and entered Regent’s Park. By this time Emma was already sound asleep in her baby carriage.

“Because until I had met you, I had just met idiots.” He emphasized that last word.

John frowned at the baby carriage, imagining a young Sherlock who saw the world differently than other children. Of course such a child would have become the target of bullying. Remembering how Sebastian Wilkes had spoken of Sherlock, he could suddenly understand his friend’s choice of armor.

Unfurling a picnic blanket, they made themselves comfortable under a big shady tree. Sherlock immediately opened his laptop, sitting cross-legged and typing fiercely on the keyboard, while John played with Emma hide and seek by putting a white cloth in front of his face and then letting it fall to his daughter’s utterly delight, squeaking with bubbling laughter.

After a while Sherlock made a disapproving grunt, and John could tell that his friend was almost inclined to throw his laptop across the lawn.

“This bloody password has nothing to do with Watanabe.” He growled in his deep voice, and Emma looked a bit alarmed.

“Maybe you have missed something in his flat?” John furled his brows pensively.

“Of course not.” Sherlock replied petulantly. “Watanabe was in the witness protection program not without a reason. He knew something which was invaluable, most certainly in regard to knowledge. He _exchanged_ his knowledge for safety. Whatever this folder contains, it’s that knowledge. I think the password was created by someone else from this program, just to be sure.”

“And that means?”

“Billy Wiggins.”

“That dealer?” John wrinkled his nose, and tried to avoid the memory of Sherlock in that drug den.

Sherlock blinked at John’s question, as if he was waking up from daydreaming. “Yes. He has some talents. One is computers. He can hack almost everything.”

“Then you should invite him for some tea.” John said sarcastically, not liking the idea but if he could help, he would make an exception.

“I’ll use my homeless network to find him when we go home.”

“But not now. We’ve just arrived.” John’s voice got alarmingly high because he wanted to spend some time longer here in this peaceful bubble of his own little family.

“Not now.” Sherlock agreed and fell onto his back, crossing his arms behind his head and closing his eyes.

John did the same, only he held Emma with outstretched arms, letting her hover over him like a flying supergirl. When a thread of drool threatened to find its way downward, he decided to lie her down between them, propping his head up on his right elbow and facing Sherlock, who sighed exaggeratedly.

“This is really hard for you, being still, isn’t it?” John could see the internal struggle of his friend who needed to stay in motion, not only physically but also mentally.

“I can endure it.”

“You should relax.” It was almost a plea.

“I’m relaxing when my brain has something to do.” He said softly, and John realized that Sherlock was doing this for his friend, _being still_.

Sighing, John produced his mobile checking the internet access. “Okay, then let’s get your brain to work.”

Sherlock turned his face to John in confusion. “How?”

“A little game my parents used to play with Harry and me at dinner. Everyone could ask one question per dinner and the others needed to find the answer. This way my parents wanted us to motivate to learn.”

Sherlock furled his brows in disbelief. “I never needed motivation.”

“Yeah, because you…” John paused, contemplating how to end the sentence, “… are you.” He browsed the internet for some difficult questions, while Sherlock raised one eyebrow expectantly, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Here we go; the name of the current king of England?” _Catchy question!_

“Dull!” Sherlock announced, rolling his eyes. “I was drunk, John, but I’m not stupid. Of course we don’t have a current king.” He rolled onto his side, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “My turn.”

“What? No. We spoke of your brainwork, not mine.” John interrupted because he knew he would lose this game.

“The chemical composition of TNT?”

***

On their way back home, John still ground his teeth at Sherlock’s little game. Of course he had lost but he knew now the chemical compositions of several highly explosive materials as well as the geographic coordinates of various places around the world.

Before they arrived at 221B, Sherlock stopped at a young woman, giving her fifty quid. He asked her to find Billy. The woman nodded silently, while Sherlock’s mobile rang.

“Mycroft.”

“You were right.” Sherlock’s older brother’s voice echoed in his ear. “Akira Koizumi became part of the witness protection program in 1996. He was the first born son of a very old, and a very traditional family, originating from Osaka. His father was one of the most powerful Oyabun, which means somewhat like godfather throughout Japan. Akira was to be his successor. But there was a second son, Takuya Koizumi. It seemed there was some kind of rivalry, and Takuya tried to kill his older brother.”

“Rivalry?” Sherlock referred to their own little feud.

“More vicious than ours, brother dear.” Mycroft answered nonchalantly. “Well, Akira survived and got into the program as long as he shared his knowledge.”

“And Tolstoi?”

“His name is Sergej Koslow. He’s worked for the KGB in Japan. Seemingly he found out that the Koizumi clan was exporting drugs to Russia and laundered money. Someday his cover blew and he got critically injured. After leaving the KGB in 2002 he went into the program as well.”

“So the only link between both men is the yakuza branch of the Koizumi clan.” Sherlock thought loudly.

“Yes.”

“Then the assassin is not working alone.” The younger brother pointed out.

“Sherlock,” There was a gentle warning in Mycroft’s voice, “You can find the assassin but stay away from his constituent.”

Sherlock frowned for several seconds at his mobile. _So there is a constituent_. Mycroft had confirmed it but Sherlock knew that he didn’t bother to ask any further questions because his brother wouldn’t reply any further.

They had entered 221B, and while Sherlock still stood in the corridor, trying to solve the puzzle, John was already upstairs with Emma in his arm.

“Sherlock!” He suddenly shouted from upstairs, and the alarm in John’s voice tore him out of his contemplating. Taking two steps at the same time, he had followed John into their living room; or what at least once looked like their living room.

It was a mess. The books were flung from the shelves across the room to the floor. The cushions of the sofa had joined the books. Several items were broken. Even old ash from the chimney dotted the red carpet. Someone had definitely burgled their flat. Even the kitchen was scoured for something but at first sight it seemed nothing was stolen.

Sherlock’s hand glided absent-mindedly into his jacket’s pocket to retrieve the memory stick, looking in disbelief at the black plastic.

“You think the assassin was here to find the stick?” John clutched Emma closer to his shoulder protectively.

“Obviously.” Then Sherlock went downstairs, shouting, “Mrs. Hudson?”

While Sherlock checked on the landlady, John found Emma’s new activity gym. One leg was broken, and he sighed sorrowfully. This was their home. Never ever had John expected that someone could rip their little safety bubble here into pieces. His eyes widened at the realization.

Mrs. Hudson was fit and well. She had been out with a friend but her flat was untouched. Sherlock had checked the front door but didn’t find any evidence of forced entry. The landlady threw her hands up in despair when she saw the mess. “I’ll call the police.”

“No!” Sherlock declared loudly.

“Sherlock,” John tried to reason his friend, “This is a burglary. Let’s call Lestrade.”

Turning toward John, he almost hissed, “We know exactly who’s done this. I don’t need the Yard for clarifying this.” He paused, looking around. “This is perfect, John.”

John looked aghast, “No. It isn’t.”

“Yes. It is. Instead of chasing down an assassin, he’ll come to us.” He spoke enthusiastically.

The appalled look of John remained, _He doesn’t understand_. “With us you mean Emma, too?”

Sherlock opened his mouth ready to speak but stopped suddenly, sensing John’s meaning. They weren’t just two men anymore who could very well defend themselves. They needed to protect Emma as well. Pursing his lips, he thought hard how to solve this predicament. “Mrs. Hudson,” he addressed the landlady, “Until this assassin is caught I want you to take a hotel for safety reasons.”

“But Sherlock…” Mrs. Hudson wailed.

He bent abruptly down to face the landlady closely, hissing, “We’re up against a murderer, Mrs. Hudson. Whether the police are involved or not, it doesn’t matter. He’ll find a way, and I don’t want any other pressure point being around then.” He inhaled slowly, speaking softer again, “Now, please go and pack your case. Mycroft will find you a suitable hotel.”

Muttering something incomprehensible, Mrs. Hudson headed downstairs. Sherlock stepped deliberately over the cluttered mess, careful not to break anything more. He picked some papers up and laid them onto the desk helplessly, while John clutched Emma even closer to him until she whimpered slightly.

Clearing his voice awkwardly, Sherlock turned to John but avoided his eyes, “Um… I think it’s best when you and Emma check into a hotel, too.”

“To leave you being easy prey for an assassin?” John asked in disbelief, the nagging thought of Mary shooting Sherlock in his mind. His friend had some melee training, and he could handle a gun but in the end he was a civilian in John’s eyes. And he swore to himself never leaving Sherlock alone in such situations; he was simply too much afraid that his friend could get injured. But what to do with Emma? Thinking briefly of Harry, he put the thought on the shelf. Harry had still her drinking habit, and he didn’t want to leave his daughter alone with his sister. “My way, this time.” He declared after a while. “We’re all sleeping in my bedroom for the nights, locking the door. I’ll handle the gun and you take care of Emma if need be. Understood?”

Sherlock nodded subtly, a small smile playing at his lips. Then he looked around in despair. “Let’s clean up this mess. I want my former chaos back.”

They spent the rest of the day with putting their stuff back to where it belonged. Some of the broken items ended up in the trash. While Sherlock rearranged their books, John took care of the damaged activity gym. He glued the broken leg, and Emma giggled for half of the evening under the gym prodding the tiny bell over and over again.

“Which side do you want to sleep?” John asked, desperately hiding his rising nervousness.

“The left side. So you have a better view to the door, and I’m closer to the cot.” That was a reasonable answer, John thought, while Sherlock put his pillow and duvet onto his favored side of the queen-size bed.

“Did you lock the door?” John slipped under his duvet in shirt and black boxers.

“Yep.” Sherlock made a popping sound with his lips, draping his dressing gown thoroughly over John’s chair. Then he followed John into the bed in his pajama. “You don’t snore, do you?” He couldn’t resist teasing his friend a bit.

John, who faced the edge of the bed, looked over his shoulder, irritated. “How would I know? Nobody’s complained yet.”

“Good.” Sherlock smiled while he slipped behind John into the bed, spooning him and resting his arm on his hip.

_I’m never going to fall asleep like this_ , John thought.

***

John woke in the early morning hours, the first sunrays tickling his face. Creasing his forehead at the feeling, he felt the heavy warmth on him. He opened his still heavy-lidded eyes and tried to adjust the blurry image of Sherlock’s face quite close to him. His friend was watching him, he realized after a moment. Not moving, he complained, “You’re pretty hot.” After speaking the words, he noticed the ambiguity of it.

“I know.” Sherlock sighed, recording every feature of John and putting it away in his mind palace.

“No,” John cleared his voice, “I mean you’re too warm.” Gently, he lifted Sherlock’s arm off his hip, seeing the mischievous sparkle hidden in the corner of his eyes. “You’ve been watching me?” He asked a little embarrassed.

“Quid pro quo, I’d say.” Sherlock grinned. “You definitely watched me yesterday’s night, too.”

John blushed at the thought that he hadn’t only watched but also kissed Sherlock. His friend needed to stifle a smile at John’s reddening ears. _Of course he has deduced it_. Sherlock’s look wandered down to John’s lips, and moved slowly a bit forward, putting a hand on John’s neck to draw him closer. John’s own eyes lingered at Sherlock’s Cupid’s bow, rolling his tongue over his lips.

It started soft, merely a brush, as if Sherlock still asked for permission to kiss John. But John didn’t leave any doubt when he slightly parted his lips. He brought his arm up to comb through Sherlock’s back of the head, increasing the pressure. They started to suck gently at each other lip, while Sherlock shifted a bit closer, and John felt that their legs were still entangled from the night. Sherlock’s tongue probed into John’s mouth, and the kiss became deeper than before. Their tongues danced together and with every stroke, goose bumps let their hair have erected. The electrifying impulses started to manifest even deeper.

John felt Sherlock’s splayed hand roaming down his chest, feeling every tense muscle behind the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock broke the kiss, and John gasped but his head followed the movement of his friend, being annoyed at the loss. Shifting his weight, Sherlock rolled carefully over John, who left his hand raked through the softness of Sherlock’s curls, while the other hand wandered down to Sherlock’s waist. They locked lips again, the kissing becoming fiercer. Sherlock had cupped John’s head behind his ears, propped up on his elbows. Leaving his mouth, Sherlock brushed tiny kisses and soft strokes with his tongue along John’s jaw, down to his neck, nibbling delicately at his earlobe. It seemed to be a very sensitive spot because John lost control and arched into Sherlock, feeling the hard cock of his friend, prodding into his belly, fueling his own arousal.

Smiling at John’s ear, Sherlock trailed his kisses downward, sucking at the carotid feeling the quickening pulse. While his lips were busy with John’s collar bone, Sherlock’s hand glided under John’s shirt pushing it slowly up.

That was, when John’s eyes suddenly snapped open. “Ahem, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” It sounded rather like a purr than a question.

“I don’t want to be indelicate because this really feels good, but…” His look went to the cot where Emma was still sleeping.

“Oh.” Sherlock sensed John’s meaning and let go of the hem of his shirt. He hadn’t thought he would go this far. Actually he just wanted to kiss John awake but somehow this got out of control; which was very rare in regard to Sherlock Holmes.

Rolling on his back again, both men just lay there for a while, trying to even their ragged breathing. John looked at the red digits projected at the ceiling. _Damn!_

With a start he got up, “I’ve to go to work.”


	18. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day takes an unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

They had decided that John would take Emma with him to the surgery while Sherlock stayed at home. He had gotten a message from Billy that he would show up as soon as possible. While John treated his patients the nurses were squeaking with glee at his little daughter. John didn’t have a good feeling, leaving Sherlock behind, and his friend had to promise to write at least every thirty minutes a message to reassure him that everything was fine.

_I’m bored. Neither the assassin nor Billy has shown up yet. – Sherlock Holmes._

John rolled his eyes. How typical of Sherlock. Of course John was glad that the assassin hadn’t shown up, and he hoped silently that the man would never show up again. This case was interesting but it had gone off the rails and had endangered his family, which made his hair stand on end. This wasn’t the good rush of adrenaline. They were now baiting a murderer. His mind wandered to Mary again; not only to her but also to the poor innocent husband she had killed. Shaking the images off his head, he took the next patient and replied afterwards.

_Tidy up the kitchen. – John Watson._

_Dull! – Sherlock Holmes._

If Sherlock Holmes wasn’t anything, it would be predictable, but John already knew his reply before typing his own message. He could literally see how Sherlock would wrinkle his nose, conjuring tiny creases in his usual young looking angular face. Chuckling at the image, he became aware how well he knew his friend. Remembering the morning, John acknowledged that he saw a new facet of Sherlock. It came so naturally; John even had forgotten that he had never been with a man before. Looking at his hand, he remembered the feeling of Sherlock’s body under the fabric of his shirt. He was lean, tense muscles were moving smoothly under his skin.

To tend Sherlock’s gunshot wound, John had seen his friend half-naked several times before. But he had neither paid much attention to his body structure nor got he aroused by seeing him; he had focused on treating the wound, that was all.

This morning he hadn’t even the possibility to see him, only to feel him, and that was already enough for him to get hard. But the most intriguing part was Sherlock’s blushing; it had started at his face, reddening those sharp cheekbones and then tinging down his neck to the collarbones where his shirt obscured the rest of his torso. Sherlock was always the cool and aloof man, a genius who saw emotions as a disadvantage; but looking at him in this most vulnerable moment as his façade began to crumble, that was what John got almost come undone.

The memory made John blush in a crimson red, and he needed to remind himself that he was at work. So he took the next patient. _Focus!_

Then his mobile was ringing for an incoming call. John almost jumped alarmed, his patient looking in confusion at his doctor’s sudden agility. Ignoring the dull cold his patient had, he answered the call.

“What’s it? Are you alright?” He needed to swallow the rising fear which had formed a lump in his throat, almost shouting at his phone.

Sherlock seemed a bit confused at his friend’s lavish care on him. “Um… yes. There was another murderer.” John formed a silent _Oh_ in relief. “I need you to come immediately to the London Eye.”

When John arrived at the London Eye, the crime scene was already largely cordoned off. He was greeted by Sally Donovan, “Wow, now you’re taking a baby to crime scenes?” She drawled full of sarcasm.

Rolling his eyes at the remark, John passed her with, “Nice to see you, too, Sally.” He couldn’t have left Emma in the surgery with the nurses, so he needed to take her with him. Whether it was a crime scene or not, she wouldn’t remember it anyway. Nonetheless he put the hood of the carriage up so his daughter couldn’t see much.

He found Sherlock at the entrance of one capsule of the London Eye. He was talking to DI Lestrade, obviously arguing about something. “The forensics and pathologists didn’t help the last times pretty much, did they?” He huffed, “Let John examine the body.”

“You know I can’t.” The DI spoke, trying to reason an annoyed Sherlock. Letting him and John investigate at crime scenes was one thing, but letting them make the autopsy was out of the question.

“Hullo.” John looked between the two men back and forth.

“Then let John at least assist the autopsy.” Both squabblers were ignoring John completely, who furled his brows incomprehensibly.

Sighing heavily at the tenacity of the consulting detective, Lestrade nodded, “All right. But only if Molly will conduct the autopsy. Others might talk and I don’t want to get a ticking-off by my superior again.”

That answer satisfied Sherlock for the moment. “Come with me, John.” He finally addressed his friend, “Leave Emma with Lestrade.”

“What?” John and Lestrade asked simultaneously in disbelief.

“You know how to handle a baby?” Sherlock slouched his shoulders fretfully.

“Yeah… but,” Lestrade replied.

“Well then, Emma,” addressing the little girl, he beamed at her, “Meet Uncle Lestrade.” With this, he grabbed John’s arm and yanked him into the capsule.

The victim lay on her side, her eyes closed and long black hair obscuring half her face. Her throat painted in a dark red, the gaping wound providing an awful sight. The red fluid had been running down onto the floor, agglutinating the hair to the ground.

John sniffed briefly and then knelt carefully down beside the victim. Alongside the blood he found traces of water again. Sherlock produced a pipette and took a sample, trickling it into a phial. Both men took a closer look at the horrible wound. There was still oozing water from it, along with the blood. So the murder had occurred within the last two hours, John concluded.

“Do we know something about her?”

Sherlock let the phial slide into his pocket. “Her name’s Akiko Yamaguchi according to her ID card. She’s thirty years old and lives in Edinburgh. She seemed to be on sightseeing in London, had checked into a hotel near Victoria Station.” Getting up, he scanned the capsule for any other clues, “I already asked Lestrade; she had acquired the British citizenship in 2009. Mycroft’s checking it currently.”

While Sherlock was using his magnifying glass to look for matching fingerprints at the handrail, John also got up, “Well,” He took the rubber gloves off, “According to the chaps around the wound, the murderer must have used quite a blunt item which required considerable effort to put it in her throat because the windpipe is firmer than most people would believe.” He took a look around as well. “Had she been alone with the murderer for a ride?”

“The staff member said so. They are trying a facial composite.” Sherlock drawled, putting his magnifying glass back into the leather bag. A picture of the murderer wouldn’t help them anyway. What they needed, was a clue which would let them track the assassin back to his hideout. “Let’s go to St. Bart’s.”

On their way to the hospital, Mycroft called explaining that the victim’s real name was Shiori Ono. She had entered the witness protection program in 2009. Working as a prostitute, one of her clients was Takuya Koizumi. “One day, the silly girl made photos of contracts with the Russian mafia regarding drug trafficking, and tried to blackmail Koizumi.” Mycroft paused, an ironic smile on his lips, “Well, obviously she failed. Fearing for her life, she gave the photos to the Japanese police. Since then Koizumi is in prison and she found a new life in Edinburgh.”

“Who’s leading the clan now?” Sherlock asked.

“Koizumi’s bodyguard is currently transacting the business, until his Oyabun will be released from prison.”

“But how did they find out about the aliases of the victims,” Sherlock mused aloud, “Unless there was a leak.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft appealed to his younger brother, “Like I said before, find the killer and then back out.”

After tapping the screen to hang up, Sherlock propped his elbow against the window frame, his hand cupping his cheek, frowning. John fidgeted slightly in his seat. He knew this mood very well, and he knew that he shouldn’t disturb Sherlock’s gloomy thinking. Sometimes he was sad about it; not being able to get to his friend in such moods.

Fortunately Molly was on duty, assigned with the autopsy. John assisted her while Sherlock checked the water. Emma stayed with Sherlock in the lab, sitting in her baby seat and sleeping peacefully. He put a single drop on the slide and pushed it carefully under the microscope’s slide holder, adjusting the light and lenses. Then he lowered his eyes to the ocular.

According to Sherlock’s biochemical analysis it was tap water again. There were traces of heavy metal like lead and copper, but one thing made him wary – Escherichia coli. His eyes widened as understanding slowly dawned on him, “Oh!”

Taking Emma, he dashed to the morgue, interrupting John and Molly who had almost finished the autopsy. He set the little girl down, face away from the body.

“I know exactly what has killed the victims.” He declared confidently. While John and Molly shared uncertain glances, Sherlock walked over to the body, inspecting the wound. “Oh, he’s clever.”

“Will you bring us into the loop?” John asked impatiently. According to their autopsy they just got to the conclusion that the weapon was blunt because of the roughly ripped tissue. It was quite annoying because they hadn’t found any hint at the weapon again.

“E. coli.”

“The bacteria?” John couldn’t follow Sherlock’s train of thoughts.

“I’ve found E. coli in the tap water.” He explained, awaiting comprehension by the others. “Oh, for God’s sake,” He moaned seconds later, receiving confused looks, “Do you ever read newspapers?”

“Well,” John smiled teasingly, “I was a bit occupied this morning and didn’t have much time. I came almost too late to work.”

“Ah…” In the halogen lighting of the morgue Sherlock could barely hide the rising heat of his face. “Well,” Clearing his voice awkwardly, he started to pace back and forth, and John found a little ruthless satisfaction after Sherlock’s snappy question, “There was a report which stated that in most parts of Greenwich and in Lewisham tap water have been contaminated with Escherichia coli.”

“So you think the murderer is from Greenwich or Lewisham?” John asked hesitantly. “That’s quite an area.”

“Yes, but we can narrow it down.” Sherlock declared triumphantly. “But first things first, most of the bacteria’s structure have been damaged. Initially, I didn’t get what would have caused the damage but when you think about it, it’s the only logical consequence. The tap water was in a frozen condition before.” He waited to let the information sink in.

“You think the victims were stabbed with ice?” Molly took the subject up.

“Yes, of course,” John slapped his forehead, not having seen the obvious before, “He made a dagger of ice. That explains the water, the condition of the wounds, the missing weapon and the delayed bleeding.”

Sherlock nodded appreciatively. “Exactly. And on the basis of components of lead and copper in the water, we can thoroughly narrow it down. According to this we know that it can’t be tenements because most of the pipes were renewed in the last years due to political requirements in regard to tap water; it has to be drinkable. So the only buildings with an old pipe system are two abandoned factories near the Thames.” Exchanging looks between Molly and John, he took the baby seat and addressed Molly, “You can handle a baby?”

“Er…” Molly stammered.

“Emma, meet Auntie Molly.” He placed the little girl in front of Molly, smiling one of his false smiles, “Maybe Uncle Lestrade wants to join you?” His eyes sparkled full of mischief.

Taken aback, Molly countered, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scurrying John out of the door, he turned for a wink, “Your perfume is very masculine today.” And this time a genuine smile curled around his lips smugly, “Fresh nappies and her bottles are in John’s briefcase. Laters!”

Molly sighed a desperate, “Okay,” and took a closer look at the briefcase.

***

On the way to their first destination, they made a detour and stopped at 221B, picking John’s gun up. “So, it’s an old factory?” John asked, checking the gun’s ammunition.

“It was,” explained Sherlock, “Build in 1920, and since the 80’s it became a warehouse. Now it’s abandoned.”

“Did you inform Lestrade?” John asked suspiciously, because just a few minutes ago, Sherlock had suggested that Molly should invite the DI to co-babysitting.

“Of course.”

The old factory wasn’t secured very well. They just climbed over the cyclone fence, looking for an entrance to the building. The company grounds weren’t paved but pebbles covered sandy ground. Because it hadn’t rained the last two days the ground was rather dusty, and Sherlock found at the metal front door dusty footprints leading into the building.

“Somebody’s definitely here.” John whispered and put his gun at the ready, shoving himself in front of Sherlock protectively.

Entering the old brick building, they blinked several times to adjust their eyes to the semi-darkness. The main hall was probably seventy yards long. But Sherlock’s attention was awakened by a small staircase to their left, leading to an office. He indicated to John that he wanted to have a look there first.

Because of the large hall every sound was audible, so climbing the metal stairs made most certainly anybody aware of the intruders; even a pair of pigeons rose from under the roof, evoking flapping sounds while flying through a broken window.

The office itself was a glass box from where the whole factory could be overlooked. The room was empty besides one mattress in the corner, draped with a blanket. While John kept an eye on the main hall downstairs, Sherlock lifted the blanket, revealing a wig with black hair, “Gotcha!” Whirling around, he consorted with John, looking down at the old factory’s conveyor belts at each side of the walls. They narrowed their eyes at the darkness when a sudden clashing sound made the window burst. Instinctively they ducked their heads.

“We’re here like living in a goldfish bowl.” John whispered. “You dash downstairs, while I give you cover.”

Sherlock nodded hesitantly, and when John fired off a warning shot into the semi-darkness his friend took two steps at the same time, hiding behind the conveyor belt downstairs. John followed him with a second warning shot.

Waiting for any further shots by their attacker, they strained their ears but instead of another shot they heard footsteps receding. Intuitively Sherlock sneaked a peek from their hiding, seeing a shadow twenty yards from them, running in the opposite direction.

Without thinking, he spurted forward, “He’s fleeing, John.”

A few yards later, John yanked his friend backwards. “I’ve got the gun. You walk behind me.”

Running along the long conveyor belts, another shot was fired off. Ducking their heads protectively, John pointed his gun at the shadow, shooting. And again they heard the attacker run away. Getting up, both men followed, using the factory’s pillars and the conveyor belts as shields. After a few steps a sharp pain flashed through John’s left shoulder, where he was shot in Afghanistan. _Great! I’m completely out of shape_. His pace slowed down, and Sherlock outrun his friend, totally focused on the attacker.

At the end of the building led a small corridor to the left side into an adjacent building. The attacker sprinted the corridor along, chased by Sherlock, who leapt over the conveyor belt vigorously. Entering the adjacent building, the attacker found a door to the right which led them onto an abandoned parking lot. The attacker was still a good twenty yards ahead of Sherlock. He fired another shot, making Sherlock recoil and hide behind the door.

Then he noticed that John hadn’t made up ground yet, looking back to the small corridor. “John?” A sudden fear crept up his spine, eyes widening. Ignoring their attacker, he run back to the main hall to find John slumped to the ground, leaning at the conveyor belt. Running as fast as he could, Sherlock crossed the main hall. “John!” But his friend didn’t answer when he dashed himself to the ground, ignoring the pain in his knee while scratching over a sharp pebble. Grabbing his friend by his shoulders, he felt the sticky fluid on his left shoulder. Panic engulfed his thinking, and he was even too afraid to turn his hand to see the blood.

“John…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the cat’s out of the bag. It was ice as presumed by anon. The inspiration came from The Signs of Three, where I thought the whole time that the ‘invisible knife’ could only be made of ice, but I was wrong and an idea for my fiction was born ;)


	19. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock worries about John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

John’s unconscious body slipped to the side, and Sherlock caught his friend, supporting his head and carefully laying him down. He took a deep intake of breath, desperately trying to remember first aid measures. It was ridiculous; he had witnessed John a good many times in saving lives. But somehow the door to his mind palace was closed, and as much as he rattled at the door, it wouldn’t open. The door had an embedded glass window, that he could see the reason. On the other side of the door lay his friend bleeding and unconscious.

_Please!_

He took his mobile and dialed 999 for an ambulance. This took him out of his shock because the man on the other end of the line told him to stop the bleeding. Shrugging out of his jacket, he pressed it hard on the wound. Pieces of memory came back to him; bending down to check his breathing, his flat breathing; taking his pulse, racing.

“John?”

No answer.

“Please John,” He begged. “Don’t you dare to die.”

Still no reaction. He felt a stream of tear running down his cheek along his nose to his lips, tasting the salt. He clung to the hope that no necessary blood vessels were hurt.

Then he heard sirens. _Too early_. Blinking the tears away, he realized that it must be Lestrade. A few minutes later the DI indeed stood in front of Sherlock aghast, “Oh my God.”

Sherlock refused to look into Lestrade’s face. He didn’t want to be seen vulnerable, so his eyes stuck at his blood-smeared hands, still pressing hard on the wound, his black jacket soaking in the fluid.

“It’s been the murderer.” Sherlock spoke through clenched teeth, not wanting to betray his shaky voice due to fear, but also noticing the rising anger.

Another siren announced the arrival of the ambulance. Two paramedics were led into the factory. They checked the vitals and tried to stabilize John’s state. After a few minutes which felt like ages, the lay John onto the stretcher, returning with him to the car. Sherlock and Lestrade followed them.

“Sherlock,” The DI grabbed his shoulder to stop him from walking on, “I need to know what happened that we can track down the killer.”

Shrugging his shoulder free, Sherlock grumbled, “Not now.” He wouldn’t let John go. Without asking permission, he stepped into the car and took a seat beside the stretcher. Lestrade was left behind, cursing under his breath.

Sherlock stared at the blood-soaked bandage. They had cut John’s shirt open to have better access to his shoulder, and for the first time since they had met in St. Bart’s back then, Sherlock saw the scar his friend received by a bullet in Afghanistan, barely five centimeters away from the new bullet wound. Rubbing his face with his palms, he pressed the heel of his hands to his eyes. _They all care so much_. His very own words were ringing in his mind when he remembered the day with Mycroft in the morgue. And his brother had replied, “All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.” He had never cared for anybody, until the day he met John Watson.

_That’s how it must’ve felt when you thought I was dead?_

Sadness had been seeping through his every pore, when he jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s. But at that time his work had been more important than his nascent feelings for John. Yet it had cut a whole into his heart. He still felt the tears streaming down his cheeks, making up the scenario wherein John had to watch him die; to protect him. Mycroft’s men had taken care of the three assassins but he wasn’t sure if there had been others of Moriarty’s network around to watch them. Telling lies, which John wouldn’t have believed was the worst part but he had thought that it would have made it so much easier for his friend; to let go of Sherlock. Yet John seeing him lie in a puddle of blood on the pavement had been too much for his friend, and Sherlock felt the mirror of that scenario in his current situation. He didn’t know how to take it, how he would survive such a loss. This was the first time he truly realized John’s agony.

_Please!_

The plea played back over and over again. He didn’t believe in God. So why the plea? To whom did he send his silent prayer then? To John? As if he had a choice. Sherlock back then had a choice, and even John’s begging, hadn’t Sherlock come back. Feeling his hands trembling uncontrollably, he pressed them hard to his mouth. _Please!_

They arrived at the hospital just a few minutes later. With practiced movements the paramedics eased the stretcher from the car into the hospital, a surgeon and several nurses already waiting. They pushed John through the labyrinth of floors until a door slammed shut in front of his nose. _No entry_. And again Sherlock was left alone with his dreadful thoughts.

Inside the operating room, John was heaved onto an operating table. The surgeon was checking the wound. There was an entrance wound and an exit wound, which was good because like this they didn’t need to search for the bullet. Taking an x-ray they saw that John’s shoulder blade was fractured and several bone splinters were stuck in his flesh. The surgical operation was prepared and within the next hours the doctors removed the splinters and the bones were adjusted.

After almost three hours Sherlock was pacing in front of the door back and forth, his mental state a mix of fear, petulance and anger. He was a mess. His jacket had been thrown away. His white button-down shirt was blood-stained, and his trouser was torn open at his right knee. Using the restrooms just for a minute, he had washed John’s blood off his hands; all his movements and thoughts had been mechanical. His mind palace was blank besides one shadowy figure standing in a corridor. Sherlock watched the attacker grimly, a thought ripening – vengeance.

Finally the doctor emerged from the operating room, brushing his scrub. He looked Sherlock up and down a little confused at his appearance. “He’s stable.” He told, and Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat, feeling the rapid flutter in his throat, trying not to curl into a ball on the ground at his relief. “The bullet went through his left shoulder. We needed to remove bone splinters which damaged some blood vessels as well. His left shoulder blade is broken, which will heal within eight weeks. But there’ll remain damaged nerve endings which could have an effect on his arm movements.”

Sherlock’s lips were pressed to a thin line. “Can I see him?”

“Only a minute.” The doctor replied sympathetically. “He’s going to be transferred to the SICU.”

Sherlock didn’t need long. All he wanted was to make sure that John still breathed, and then he would hunt an assassin.

Two nurses were still in the room, already cleaning up for the next emergency. John lay in the middle on the operating table, still clad in his jeans, bare-chested. Around his torso and over his shoulder led a white cotton stream, obscuring the nasty remnant of their afternoon’s adventure. His chest was lifting and lowering rhythmically, and Sherlock splayed a hand onto his friend’s heart, feeling the even breathing as well as a strong drum of his heartbeat. On each arm an infusion snaked from his arm to a small plastic bag filled with pain killers and saline solution.

He bent over John’s head, giving him a ghost of a kiss onto his forehead, whispering, “I’ll be back soon.”

On his way back to the factory, he called Molly to ensure that John was all right, and that he needed her help in babysitting Emma a little while longer. There was still Lestrade’s unit at work in the factory, the forensics looking for any clues. Sherlock tried to pass Lestrade without being noticed but he had underestimated the DI.

“How’s John?” He asked worried.

Taking a deep intake of breath, Sherlock calmed himself, “He’ll make it.” Then he strode past his friend who wanted to follow him suspicious of his return but he was held up by Donovan who announced that they had found fingerprints.

Sherlock used the distraction to slip by Lestrade, and for the first time he was happy about the turn up of Sally Donovan. He walked again down the small corridor to the door of the adjacent building. Fortunately the forensics had only focused on the main hall where John had been shot. Opening the door he found himself again on the abandoned parking lot. The dusty ground covered with pebbles revealed footprints and tiny droplets of blood. Sherlock smiled grimly. John had found his target, too, and Sherlock could follow the assassin as he had left bread crumbs.

Crossing the parking lot, he climbed over another cyclone fence. A small street without pavement led toward the Thames which was one hundred yards away. Looking for the bread crumbs, he came to a railing from where he could look down to the embankment.

_What now? Where did he go?_

He turned around, scanning the area for any clues. Rubbing his neck, he looked down to the bank but couldn’t find any footprints left in the wet sand. He took a few steps back. There was no-one to be seen. It was an abandoned industrial area. Sherlock realized the early evening hours as the sun started to set down, replaced by twilight, fear urging him to move on otherwise he would lose the hunt. Unnoticed when he first crossed it, he perceived a manhole cover jiggling under his feet.

Looking down at the heavy metal cover, he saw fresh scratches on the street which implied that someone had opened the hole to the sewer recently. Leaning his weight on one side of the cover, he could get a grip of the other side to lift the heavy disc.

The darkness invited him, sending shivers down his spine. He produced a torch from his leather bag. Sending the light down the hole, he saw the ladder going down ten feet. His shirt tails hang loosely over his trouser but not because he was disheveled. He had used it to shield John’s Sig Sauer P226 from curious glances.

Taking the gun from the waistband of his trouser at the small of his back and putting the small torch into his mouth, he climbed down into London’s sewer system. When he hit ground in the vague light cone from above he couldn’t see past it. Panning the torch from right to left, he visualized a map of London to coordinate where he was. Sherlock knew the London tunnel system from maps as well. The floor was wet and slick, yet he could see the tiny red droplets leading westward. Following them, he knew that soon a major tunnel would cross this small one. He barely could walk upright, and the humid air left tiny beads of sweat on his forehead, slicking down some unruly curls to his eyebrows.

Walking as fast as he could, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Slowly he stopped swaying in his movements with the flickering light of his torch and the engulfing darkness, so he could pass into a careful run. He knew that the greater tunnel would lead them to an abandoned Tube station. Seemingly the killer had the same knowledge.

When he arrived at the greater tube-shaped tunnel, he rolled his shoulders, freed of his cramped position. Continuing his way toward the direction of Lewisham, he almost tripped over an unseen obstacle. Casting light on the item, he found the black leather coat of the murderer. Obviously he got rid of the coat because it got inconveniently warm and humid down in the sewer system; not to mention the stench. Sherlock rummaged the pockets thoroughly but didn’t find anything besides an extra pocket in the inside made of silver material.

_Polyurethane with aluminum foil. That’s how you transported the ice without melting significantly._

He had sewed a cooling bag in his coat. Then he found a tiny hole where the bullet had hit the coat.

_The area around his waist. He’s slowing down, probably bleeding to death if he doesn’t seek a hospital soon._

Leaving the coat, he followed the bread crumbs again, tiny droplets becoming bigger painting to the ground now that the coat was gone which had soaked most of the blood. He chased the track running faster with every step. In the distance he heard the Tube rumbling through tunnels. Finally he reached a major crossing. Scanning his mind palace for the direction, he knew to his left he would come to the Tube, the next station within two kilometers. But the hunted murderer had other plans in mind. He had heard the hunter coming closer.

Sherlock was too much on adrenaline than to react appropriately. Suddenly two strong hands grabbed him unpleasantly and hurled him against the next wall. The impact was hard, and Sherlock lost his balance, losing the Sig and the torch. Through the other tunnel, where the Tube run the spider web of London’s underground, a faint light shimmered into the crossing to at least guess shadows. The other man was approximately four inches taller than Sherlock, and he got a grip on his hairs in the nape of neck. He yanked him up, and his other hand closed around his throat, pinning him to the wall. Sherlock wriggled, his fingers digging hard into the killers forearms but he couldn’t move them a bit. The man was too strong and definitely on an adrenaline rush.

Remembering where John’s bullet had hit the man, Sherlock pulled up his knee to ram it into his left waist. The other man yelped at the sudden pain, loosening his grip and Sherlock got free, coughing hard as he sucked desperately oxygen into his lungs. Then he hit the assassin a second time with his fist and grabbed him at his shirt to spin him around, pinning him to the wall this time. In the semi-darkness he could see the close-cropped blond hair and blue eyes but he hadn’t seen this man before.

_Only some hired killer._

The two strikes to the wound made the other man slump to the ground, and Sherlock picked his torch up, looking for the gun. The killer grunted in pain, and Sherlock never left his attention on his attacker. Finally he found the black gun on dark ground a few meters to his right. Taking the cold metal into his hand, he weighed it a little before pointing it slowly in direction of the assassin.

“You can count yourself lucky.” He sneered full of contempt. The other man’s head snapped up questioningly. “If you had killed him, you’d be dead now.”

Then Sherlock tilted his head to his right shoulder pressing his ear at it, while his left hand closed around the other ear protectively. The shot echoed in the big tunnel, and the bullet hit the wall beside the assassin who screamed out in agony, pressing his own hand to his ear. A thin thread of blood found his way out of his ear, indicating that his drumhead had been burst.

“Bloody psychopath!” The other man cursed, holding his ear in the hope that he could ease his pain like that.

Sherlock knelt down onto the muddy ground, pale blue eyes sparkling in the darkness threateningly, “If I was one, you’d be dead.” He bared his teeth in a snarl, “I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”


	20. Dependence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

The surroundings were a blurry image, like seeing through an opal glass, only shades of colors in contrast to white. He heard the faint rustling of clothes while he tried to force his eyes open but his body didn’t obey his wishes. His furred tongue was stuck to his palate. Swallowing the dryness, he felt the ache in his throat. Slowly the images began to sharpen through half-opened eyes. There was someone sitting nearby but he couldn’t tell who it was. He couldn’t even remember how he got here; wherever _here_ was.

As consciousness crept up on his mind gradually, he noticed the pain. First it was a dull soreness but then it manifested into a sharp pang in his left shoulder. A mute cry escaped his lips when he tried to move his tired muscles.

“John?”

He knew that voice, a deep sound vibrating in his inner core. Desperately he tried to get control of his body when the anesthesia faded from his mind and memories of a dark place with a shadowy figure came back. He had been shot. A groan bubbled up his mouth.

Finally John forced his eyes open, blinking frantically to get a clearer image at last. The person, who he hadn’t recognized at first, was Sherlock. In the crook of his arm snuggled Emma, sound asleep. John wanted to say something but every intake of breath was pain, and he hadn’t yet the strength to speak.

Sherlock’s warm hand closed around his knuckles, squeezing reassuringly. “It’s okay. Don’t speak. You need to rest.”

Slowly he turned his hand over, intertwining fingers with Sherlock’s hand. Why did his friend look like a mess? Shirt all ruffled, blood-stained. His trousers torn open at his knee, and his hair all tousled. Retrospectively it was a stupid question but at that time John wasn’t capable of thinking coherently.

Dozing off again, he drifted into a deep sleep, and when he opened his eyes again bright sunlight flooded the hospital room. His mind had returned to working again, the drowsiness of the anesthesia of the last evening completely gone. Yet the pain spreading from his left shoulder still lingered in his body. To the right side of his bed sat Sherlock, typing on his laptop. The sudden rustling of the white blanket made him look up, a smile lightening his face.

John cleared his voice, feeling the sore throat again; probably a remnant of the tube. Sherlock had changed his clothes, and Emma wasn’t to be seen. “Emma?” He rasped.

“When you woke up yesterday, I brought her home. Mrs. Hudson is so kind to take care of her.”

It was a unique experience to see Sherlock worried. He had seen once a similar face of his friend when he had been abducted by Magnussen’s men to let him burn alive. Back then he wasn’t hurt badly but lying in hospital while every breath hurts like a fresh stab with a knife made Sherlock crease his forehead, a single crinkle drawn like a bridge between his brows. Most certainly he hadn’t slept at all given the dark rings under his eyes.

“What happened?” John knew that he had been shot, not in the first instance, only when he saw the red fluid sticking to his fumbling fingertips. No. He wanted to know what had happened afterwards. Sherlock’s clothes the day before had looked disastrous. At first John had panicked when he saw the blood on his friend. He thought Sherlock had been wounded either. But then logic hit his mind again, and he concluded that it must have been his own blood.

Sherlock closed his laptop and put it onto a nearby side table, never letting go of John’s hand. “You’ve been shot.”

“I can feel that.” John huffed a mirthless laugh but Sherlock glowered at him as if he didn’t get the joke.

“I chased that scumbag through half London’s underground and finally caught him. He’s in custody awaiting trial.” The way like Sherlock explained the facts without boasting made John raising one eyebrow in a question.

“There’s more to it?”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock’s eyes glittered darkly, “Let’s say, he can’t carry on his profession anymore.”

“What did you do?” John was a bit alarmed.

“Made his drumhead burst.” And his dark glance joined an even dark smile. Then his features softened and he got up. Leaving hold of John’s hand, he cupped his face and rested his forehead on John’s. With closed eyes he shakily inhaled the fading scent of John’s shampoo, “I am so sorry.”

John relished the warmth but was confused by his friend’s apology. “What? For hurting that bugger?”

Casting up his eyes half open to lock his pale blue eyes with dark blue eyes, he sighed. “No. For what I did to you.” John creased his forehead in confusion but waited patiently for his friend to resume. “I was so afraid that he could’ve killed you. And I realized what it must’ve felt for you.”

A silent _Oh_ formed on his lips as comprehension hit him. Sherlock had apologized before, and John had forgiven him but until now Sherlock probably never had understood why he had to apologize. Empathy wasn’t his friend’s best trait. He felt a single tear trapped between the tips of their noses. When Sherlock experienced emotions, they were honest and raw, and he had difficulties in handling them. John’s right hand came up, burying into the soft hair of Sherlock’s nape. “You were an idiot.” It was rather an endearment than an insult, and despite the harsh words, John smiled. “But now you’ve learned your lesson.”

Sherlock retreated slightly but John didn’t let him go. “That’s not funny.” He pouted.

“I agree.” Then John pulled him down on his lips, a gentle and reassuring brush. When their lips parted, he said, “I need to make arrangements for Emma, just in case if need be.”

This time Sherlock broke his head free, looking aghast at his friend. “John.”

“We both know what we’re doing is dangerous. You pointed it out on several occasions. I won’t stop doing what I like.” He locked stern eyes with Sherlock. “I know enough soldiers risking their lives in action yet they’ve children and wives waiting at home.”

Nodding slowly, Sherlock asked, “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know yet.” John sighed heavily. There was only one person whom he would confide Emma to; and that was Sherlock. The realization struck him, sucking a sharp intake of breath into his lungs.

***

The days in hospital felt vapid; a sequence between sleep and wake. It was boring, and for the first time he could understand Sherlock’s feeling of paralysis when there was nothing to occupy with. Sherlock came at least twice a day, bringing Emma along. He put her into the crook of John’s arm, and his friend could relish some father-daughter moments of warm glances, babbling and soft kisses. But when Sherlock was gone again, John felt empty. He realized that he wouldn’t be able to care for his daughter for the next weeks. This stung to his heart and hot anger crossed his chest toward the man who was waiting for trial in jail. There must also be hatred by bereaved people of Mary’s victims. It was odd to know that there existed hatred when he couldn’t hate her likewise even though he had experienced such an unfortunate encounter with an assassin himself.

Not only was he incapable of taking care of his daughter, John noticed throughout the days, but he was also dependent on help by others; he could barely cloth himself or could hold a spoon or fork with his right hand. Meanwhile, he got some distraction by visits of his friends; Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade. The latter also came for inquiring John of what had happened in that factory.

The last day of his stay in hospital he packed his clothes into a duffel bag, Sherlock had brought him some days ago. Suddenly the door swung open, and his friend stormed in in long angry strides. John was too surprised by Sherlock’s petulance than to interfere and watched him pace back and forth, hissing. “Such a coward!”

Sherlock had the tendency to shut people out of his thinking, and when he didn’t explain the facts, John gave in and asked, “Who?”

That made him stop, looking irritated at John as if he hadn’t recognized where he was. “The assassin.” He lounged noisily into the uncomfortable chair. “He committed suicide this morning.”

John frowned. That wasn’t logical. “Did he?” He asked without an explanation of his own confusion.

Looking at John fretfully, Sherlock replied simply, “Yes. They found him hanged in his prison cell. Used his blanket.”

There was something John was bothered about but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Sherlock’s look didn’t make it any better. He was annoyed not only because a witness of the employer was dead but also John questioning the consulting detective. “But why would he do that?” John shrugged with his shoulders intuitively and winced when a pang hit his left one. That softened a bit Sherlock’s sharp features. “An assassin is no yakuza. He doesn’t kill for honor for his Oyabun. He kills because he’ll get paid. So why would he relinquish everything his life built upon if not…”

“For being murdered.” Sherlock ended the thought. There was this glint of pride in Sherlock’s eyes because John had seen something he didn’t observe. “You think he was murdered because he knew the identity of his client?”

“Yes.” He didn’t tell Sherlock his other thoughts if not Sherlock did know it nonetheless. But John believed that was part of the reason why Mary broke out of prison. Even if she hadn’t betrayed her clients in court they certainly thought her to be a liability.

Retrieving his mobile from his jacket, Sherlock typed frantically Lestrade. “There’re cameras in the cells. Surely they’ve shot something. I’ll let Lestrade check.” From Sherlock’s mouth this sounded like he outsourced the matter.

“You’re not checking yourself?” John raised one quizzical eyebrow because it rarely happened that his friend entrusted his work to the Yard.

“Either way, it’s not necessary.” Sherlock didn’t look up from his phone. “The man’s dead. Let’s find Lestrade out how he died. Then we can check for the results.” When he had finished typing, he let the mobile glided back into his pocket. “My number one priority right now is you getting out of this hospital.” He almost spat the last word.

“Right.” John mumbled, returning to packing his duffel bag which had been interrupted by the swirling storm of Sherlock Holmes. The problem he faced was what he would wear. His left arm was fixated in a shoulder brace, and even when he took it off for changing, he barely could lift his arm. He hated being dependent by someone, even back then when he got shot in Afghanistan. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply when suddenly warm hands carefully opened the hook and loop fastener of the shoulder brace.

“What do you want to wear?” Sherlock’s considerate voice hummed beside his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

Opening his eyes again, John looked at his two options spread out on the bed. “I guess we can forget the jumper.” He grimaced while Sherlock carefully opened the hospital gown at John’s back, every brush of his fingers leaving tiny tickling sensations under his skin. “Let’s try the button-down shirt.” He laughed sarcastically and added, “If that doesn’t work either, I’ll have no other choice than to walk half-naked home.”

Just for a second Sherlock’s brow knitted together, “That’s out of the question.” He mumbled softly but determined. “I don’t like to share what’s mine.” And a mischievous grin tugged at the corner of his mouth when he stripped the gown off John’s shoulder, letting it fall into a pool at his feet. John blushed crimson red and was indeed glad that he had managed to put at least his jeans on before Sherlock entered the room to leave him some dignity.

To don the shirt Sherlock needed to lift John’s arm slightly which had been enough to bring him down to earth. A sharp pain radiated from his shoulder into his back and chest, and he cursed under his breath. “Sorry,” mumbled Sherlock, grimacing for being the cause of the pain but eventually they managed to put the grey shirt on.

Afterwards Sherlock fixated his friend’s arm again with the shoulder brace, and John realized how much he would be depending on Sherlock for the upcoming weeks. There would scarcely be time for cases, and John rolled his eyes at the image of an over-bored detective trapped in domestic bliss between his friend and his daughter.


	21. Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock opens up before John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

When they arrived at 221B Mrs. Hudson greeted them at the front door, cradling a little Emma close to her shoulder. The landlady was the only one who couldn’t visit John during his seven day hospital stay because she took care of Emma while Sherlock was out.

“Oh dear,” She made a haunted face. “You look awful.” Mrs. Hudson was always prone to blunt honesty but John was indeed still quite pale. The blood loss and the pain left its marks on him, and his eyes seemed sunk in to his sockets, crinkles worrying his face; the boyish features lingered somewhere underneath but for the moment they were gone.

A sheepish smile crossed his lips but he didn’t want to give into his poor well-being, so he replied instead, “Thank you for taking care of Emma, Mrs. Hudson.”

His little daughter was smiling broadly at her father, trying to reach him with one arm. John took the tiny hand between his fingers, giving her a kiss. “She’s just an angel, your little sweetheart.” Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly.

Rolling his eyes at the endearment, Sherlock took the girl. “Her name’s still Emma.” He mumbled grumpily and then headed upstairs. John suppressed a smile at their little feud about pet names. He knew that Sherlock long ago accepted Mrs. Hudson’s endearments arguably because John used some pet names on his own behalf either. It was good to be home again, realizing that nothing had changed in his absence.

The living room contained the same smell, a mix of wood, carpet and Sherlock. His friend put Emma under her activity gym, and earned an honest squeak of joy. The kitchen was clean, no experiment to be seen, and the small hall to Sherlock’s bedroom revealed a view to his friend’s closet because the door was left open, which rarely happened.

“Tea?” Sherlock popped suddenly up in John’s field of view. John blinked in confusion; since when did Sherlock make tea, if not for apologizing or hiding something.

“Yes, please.” The reply came hesitantly. Narrowing his eyes at his friend who busied himself with the kettle, John decided to bring his duffel bag upstairs.

What could Sherlock possibly hide? He didn’t like it when he didn’t know what his friend was up to. Climbing slowly the steps, he tried to avoid every movement with his left shoulder. He had taken painkillers but they just helped to a certain degree. Sighing, he opened the door to his bedroom, only to look bewildered.

“Sherlock!” No, he didn’t need to call his name in a question because his friend was very well aware of what would happen when John entered his bedroom.

“John?” Sherlock stopped at the stairs, not daring to climb the steps.

“Where’s my bed?”

“Gone,” he sounded matter-of-factly, “Obviously.”

John was still gaping at his bedroom. Well, not his bedroom anymore, as it seemed. His bed and closet were gone. Instead there was Emma’s changing table, her chest of drawers and her closet, as well as her cot. Some toys lay scattered on the floor.

_He made my bedroom into Emma’s room_. _But where am I supposed to sleep now?_ As soon as he had finished the thought it already dawned on him. Whirling around he scowled at Sherlock, who tortured his bottom lip. _Great! He knew I would react like that_. And somehow this softened his mood because he understood that Sherlock had problems expressing emotions. That’s why he just did this. “Sherlock,” he tried to reason his friend, speaking softly, “Those are decisions we should make together.”

Furling his brows pensively, John could see Sherlock was hurt, “Do you want me to bring your bed back?”

John slouched his shoulders, feeling the pain stabbing his shoulder blade. “No,” he sighed. He had actually enjoyed the night they slept in one bed, left out the circumstances of that pleasure. He hadn’t just assumed to move into Sherlock’s bedroom so fast.

“I thought it was the logical conclusion to have you moved into my bedroom.” John rolled his eyes at his friend’s choice of explanation because he knew otherwise. “Emma could finally have her own room. And if you need help with your shoulder I’ll be right on the spot.”

Slowly, John went downstairs again. “No, you idiot,” he said gently with a smile, “That wasn’t a logical conclusion.” Then he put his right hand on Sherlock’s chest, feeling the heartbeat underneath layers of clothes. “It was a heart’s decision.” John knew that Sherlock had done this on purpose but even his friend hadn’t understood that he had moved John’s stuff downstairs out of his emotional state.

Leaving a confused Sherlock at the stairs, John turned to the left, passing the kitchen and entered his new bedroom. Sherlock had moved his chest of drawers beneath the window to make room for John’s closet. John’s pillow and duvet was draped over the queen-sized bed. He grimaced sarcastically at the bathroom door; at least he needn’t walk that far for the toilet anymore.

While he unpacked his stuff, Sherlock had started to play the violin. He had explained proudly that Emma was especially fond of Johann Sebastian Bach. It helped her go to sleep.

In the late afternoon the bell rang, and John was a bit alarmed, still on mode the killer might come for them to the sanctuary of their home. He had been reading to Emma a story about a zoo, and his daughter enjoyed patting the strengthened pages of the book. Sherlock stood up, observing the tension of his friend. “It’s alright. I asked Billy to drop by.”

The days in John’s absence the man of Sherlock’s homeless network came almost daily to crack the password. He did it within two days to encounter another wall; the files were scrambled with a code. Since then he worked every day to decipher the contents.

“Hi, Dr. Watson.” The haggard man greeted him in his muttering manner as he entered the living room. John thought poorly of Billy even though he was helpful but their first encounter wasn’t pleasant, and he still suspected he could smuggle drugs to Sherlock. So John just curtly nodded back.

Throughout the afternoon Sherlock explained that Billy already had deciphered some files but they hadn’t been very interesting. It was about Koizumi’s family tree, clarifying the hierarchical structures of the clan; nothing what Mycroft had already told them. Bit by bit, Sherlock and Billy unveiled further pieces of the files, while John played with Emma relishing the togetherness after such a long time.

Yet he needed Sherlock’s help to give her a bottle as well as prepare her for bed. It was quite frustrating, and John hoped that his shoulder would heal quickly. When Emma was sound asleep in her own room, John enjoyed a crime novel, from time to time looking over the rim of the book curiously. Sherlock had taken John’s laptop working the keyboard frantically.

When a yawn escaped his mouth John realized that it was past midnight again, and he decided to go to bed. Sherlock and Billy were still working at the laptops. They had connected both devices so Sherlock could already read the deciphered files while Billy did his best to make them legible.

John bid goodnight but wasn’t heard by his friend. It gave him the hump that Sherlock was too much absorbed in his work than to notice that John was leaving the room. In front of the big bed he was faced with the problem of how to change his clothes. He didn’t want to go back and ask Sherlock for help. The jeans wasn’t so much a problem but the button-down shirt which left the question what he would wear for the night. A t-shirt was out of the question for the next weeks. He started to unbutton the shirt with his right hand. With summer approaching it was warm enough, so he chose to sleep just in his boxers, half his chest was obscured by the broad bandage anyway. Unfastening the stripes of the shoulder brace wasn’t easy but he could handle it, as well as shrugging out of his shirt. Unfortunately it was quite a painful undertaking, and he hissed through clenched teeth. Lying down onto the bed wasn’t even better. John groaned at the pang his movements provoked until he hit the pillow with his head. After a few minutes the pain faded into a dull throbbing but he could manage to doze off.

At some time in the night John woke when the mattress dipped slightly, and he felt Sherlock snuggling up to him. It was then when John realized that he had unconsciously chosen the right side of the bed whereas the other night he had chosen the left side.

_Weird thing, that subconsciousness_ , he thought.

Would he have chosen the left side, Sherlock hadn’t been able to drape himself over John because his injured shoulder would be in the way. But like that Sherlock claimed his position by draping one long leg over John’s thigh and tucking it back under John’s knee while his right arm snaked his way over John’s bare chest, his hand hanging loosely at John’s waist. If Sherlock was surprised by John’s nakedness, he wouldn’t give it away. John on the other hand tensed at the sudden heaviness of his friend but then slowly relaxed into the warm embrace.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Sherlock mumbled close to John’s ear who enjoyed again the baritone voice eliciting goose bumps at the nape of his neck.

Checking for the clock John saw that it was past three o’clock in the morning. “It’s okay.” He murmured, feeling the urge to stretch but suppressed it being afraid it would cause another stab of pain in his shoulder. After a while staring into the darkness and listening to the faint sounds of Baker Street, he asked, “Billy’s gone?” Somehow he wanted to be sure that the man wasn’t sleeping on their sofa.

“Of course.” Sherlock opened his eyes baffled, reflecting spots of remaining light let them sparkle like diamonds. Was there just a hint of jealousy hidden in John’s voice? He looked intently at his friend and searched for any expression which made him think Sherlock would let Billy sleep in their home. John had pursed his lips shortly, and Sherlock increased the pressure of his arm to reassure his friend. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice when you left for bed.” He felt the up and down of John’s even breathing, and the deep intake of breath before letting a sigh escape his mouth.

“Yeah, it would’ve been nice at least to say goodnight.”

“You’re angry with me?” Sherlock asked uncertain, John’s voice betraying the reproach.

Another sigh escaped, “No,” he turned his face to Sherlock, locking silvery eyes in the shadows of the room. “But since you decided to share the same bedroom, the thought of going to bed together arose in my mind.” This was what he expected in a relationship.

As if Sherlock had held his breath too long, he blew it out finally in one steady stream. He didn’t know what to anticipate after he moved John’s stuff downstairs but certainly John knew it. “Did I do it wrong?”

John narrowed his eyes, noticing the worry in his friend’s voice. “Sherlock?” He asked, rolling his tongue over his lower lip and biting his cheek, uncertain how he should approach his question. “Have you, um… ever been in a relationship?”

Sherlock looked at John blankly for a while, being careful not to increase too much pressure on John’s chest while fidgeting slightly under the scrutiny of John’s gaze. He thought hard about changing the subject because it would give away a glimpse of Sherlock’s past he didn’t want to share with anybody. But this was John, and he deserved an honest reply. “No.” He exhaled eventually.

Furrowing his brows at the revelation John tried to imagine why someone would torture himself so much as to avoid any social relationships, be it friends or partners. Sherlock was good looking, his slender frame hidden beneath custom-tailored suits, his sharp features making him outstand from the crowd. “Why?” John whispered, echoing the silence Sherlock’s reply evoked.

Sherlock rubbed his face as if he wanted to hide himself behind the wall of his hand but then he rested it on John’s chest again, feeling the steady heartbeat. “It was very early clear that I was different from others.” He began hesitantly, “First they thought I was mentally ill but after a while they figured out that I had a very high IQ. As a consequence thereof I had difficulties to socialize with other people. They thought of me as a weirdo, a freak or whatever _endearments_ they had on hand.”

John looked suddenly up, alarmed by Sherlock’s choice of word. _That’s why he doesn’t like pet names?_

“I was an easy target for bullying. Mycroft tried his best to protect me but he couldn’t always be there.” John had more than often the feeling that the Holmes’ brother’s little feud hadn’t been because of the way they had been raised but because they liked to challenge each other’s intellect. In fact he believed that Mycroft indeed loved his little brother. Sherlock reciprocated these sentiments but was plainly too stubborn to acknowledge them. “When Redbeard died, I lost the only _friend_ I ever had, and I decided to believe Mycroft’s words that feelings are a disadvantage. I let them bully me as far as they didn’t hurt me physically.” He stopped, a flicker of cruel mischief crossing his eyes. “If they indeed tried to attack me they were disabused because I started to dig into every book and video about self-defenses.”

A playful smile tugged at the corners of John’s mouth at the image of a ten year old Sherlock in his school uniform all disheveled with scratches in his face from a fight he actually won. “You fought back.” He hummed with approval.

“Of course.” And Sherlock returned the smile. “I’m not that helpless. Yet I don’t want to miss my army trained doctor.” He wrinkled his nose playfully. John suppressed the arousing feeling accompanied by Sherlock’s teasing undertone, and somehow he got more and more frustrated with the situation that he wouldn’t be able to move properly within the next few weeks. There was a moment of mutual silence, and Sherlock’s voice turned again into a rumbling whisper, “When I started university it got more complicated. Now I had to deal with adults who scrunched their noses when they realized that I could deduce their deepest secrets. My roommate wasn’t any better despite the fact that he smuggled cocaine onto the campus.” John creased his forehead at the mention of the drug. “We had a mutual agreement. I told nobody, and he would just let me be.” Then he inhaled a shaky intake of breath. “It was the first time I called my behavior into question; during one of my courses I met someone I indeed felt attracted to but like so many others he thought of me as a freaky genius, too.” He shot John a cursory glance, looking for any traces of jealousy but his friend’s eyes didn’t betray any such feelings but open interest in Sherlock’s bruised past. “I knew the biochemical effect of cocaine to a human body, and I thought that I could switch my head off just for a while if I took the drug, hoping to become _normal_.”

John swallowed the lump which had appeared in his throat while Sherlock unfolded those nasty fragments of his life. “You thought you could suppress what makes you uniquely?” It wasn’t meant to sound snappy or patronizing, he just couldn’t believe that a smart man like Sherlock indeed thought to outwit the consequences of an addiction; using a _high_ to stifle his addiction to knowledge. John felt his stomach squeeze into a tight ball, anger flashing at the idiot who turned Sherlock so dismissively down.

“As foolishly as it sounds but… yes.” He put his forehead onto John’s, hoping to alleviate his inner turmoil. “But I don’t need that anymore,” he whispered with closed eyes, “Now that I have you.” And the words became the kiss on their lips.

“Goodnight, John.”


	22. Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are stuck in the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

While the days past on, John felt the tension of the last weeks of chasing a murderer slip slowly away. Mike Stamford came every second day to clean the bullet wound and refresh the compress with the bandage. The wound itself had almost healed, white fibrin coating the surface. Only the fractured bones and the damaged nerve endings made John still wince at every movement. But with time he could handle Emma almost on his own; picking her up with one hand and feeding her. It was one step closer to normality.

Sherlock and Billy were still busy with deciphering the code, and according to the haggard man they were almost done. Lestrade had called back the next day after John had returned home. He had explained that there wasn’t any camera footage of the prison cell showing the suicide of the assassin. Slowly but surely, John started to believe in a conspiracy, only this time the footage hadn’t been cut out. The cameras had been simply turned off the minutes the suicide happened. This brought them to the conclusion that it had been indeed a murder, and the killer must have been one of the prison staff, someone who could switch off the cameras.

Sherlock had attended the autopsy but there weren’t any signs of strangling the man with hands nor did he seem to have fought back. The reason of his mutual murder was found in his blood. He had taken an overdose of a muscle relaxant shortly before he had choked, using his blanket as a rope looped around his neck. Unfortunately they had no proof that the assassin had been murdered, and the case got more and more discouraging, at least in the eyes of Sherlock.

Slamming his fist onto the desk beside his laptop, he roared in annoyance, accusing himself of his own failure. “God, this is so frustrating!”

Emma, who had been completely absorbed in her own world, playing peacefully with a stuffed bear, looked alarmed up at the shout of Sherlock. It could be observed like in slow motion how her bottom lip shoved over her upper lip, the corners of her mouth dragging downwards when a small whimper turned into a hysterical cry.

While John looked at his friend reproachfully, he lifted her up and cradled her in the crook of his arm, rocking her until the cries ebbed and turned into tiny sobs. Sherlock was appalled at his own outburst. His eyes betrayed the uncertainty of a young child who did something wrong but couldn’t quite understand what it was. Scowling at his hands, he inhaled deeply to shove his temper aside. It hadn’t been his intention to frighten Emma but how could he tell that his outburst of anger would affect her this way. Emma’s agitation was the most honest behavior by a human being showing the reaction Sherlock provoked when he talked to adults; making them irritated and anxious. Other people were indifferent to him, and he just ignored their petty feelings but Emma reflecting those feelings like a mirror right now made him flinch. Never ever wanted he to be the cause of her distress.

John seemed to sense the turmoil of his friend and crossed the room to stand beside the desk. Slowly Emma’s hiccups ebbed away while John waited for any reaction of Sherlock. He didn’t want to tell him what he should do; that was something the detective should figure out by himself. Eventually Sherlock got up to cradle the little girl close to his shoulder, patting her shoulders gently. “I’m so sorry.” He crooned, kissing her temple.

Emma seemed to have forgiven him because she smiled again and tried to reach his nose. “You know,” John started, “Parents aren’t perfect. Just control your next outburst of frustration while she’s around.”

Creasing his forehead to John, Sherlock asked, “Parents?”

John wasn’t aware of his own choice of word and arched his brows in surprise. “Yes,” He hesitated and considered Sherlock’s opinion, “Why not?” His friend’s expression was blank, and reminded him of the day when Sherlock realized that John saw in him his best friend. “You take care of her like a father.”

“But you’re her father.”

“Yes, but she can have two dads, can’t she?” John asked uncertainly, afraid of Sherlock’s rejection.

“That could get quite confusing when she calls for her dad.” Sherlock furled his brows pensively.

“Well, _daddy_ is already used. What about _pop_ for you?” He could barely suppress the grin when Sherlock’s head snapped up. For a split-second his friend indeed thought that John was dead serious.

When he caught the teasing he narrowed his eyes in a wry gesture, saying mutely, _How funny_. Then his glance wandered to the little girl in his arms, and his features softened. “I never thought of being anybody’s father.” His voice sounded sad.

“You never thought of you as anybody but a consulting detective, Sherlock.” John put a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder, squeezing slightly.

Sherlock’s pale eyes lit on John’s hand, saying thoughtfully, “If I have a say in it, I’d rather stick with just _dad_.”

John wasn’t quite sure but he could tell that Sherlock was blushing slightly at his decision. Yet it made him sad that they just hadn’t met earlier in their lives. He could have saved Sherlock and himself a lot of pain; Sherlock would never have turned to cocaine, and John would never have met Mary. As soon as the thought had formed in his mind, he regretted it immediately, watching Emma play with Sherlock’s curls. If they had met earlier, then there wouldn’t be Emma. And who knows if they would have been prepared for each other ten years ago. John wasn’t quite sure about his feelings almost half a year ago.

“What do we have then?” He asked eventually, changing the subject and hoping to find any clue which could solve the case.

Sherlock turned around, looking at the black and white wallpaper with the yellow smiley. There were lots of notes attached at the wall; photos from the scrambled folder and from police reports. Sherlock had added own notes to the already existing evidence and had marked them with a red pen.

“So far we can be quite certain that the assassin was murdered in prison. There’s every likelihood that the drugs were passed to him by the staff, probably a prison officer but with the missing footage we can’t nail them down. I checked the staff being present the day the assassin died, all long-term employees, nothing suspicious in their profiles.”

John stepped beside him, brushing shoulders with Sherlock. “So that’s a dead end?”

“For now,” Sherlock nodded grimly. His look wandered over the pictures of the victims. “Except the accidental killing of Itsuki Watanabe, it can be presumed that the murders were all executions. The three victims are tied together by too much knowledge about the Koizumi clan.”

John chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully, “Do you think Takuya Koizumi could be the employer of the assassin?”

Turning his eyes away from the wall, Sherlock’s glance lit on John, a small smile betraying his pride for his friend. “It’s a possibility.” Then he pointed his finger to a certain picture on the wall, showing a Japanese man of around sixty years. “That’s Shinichiro Koizumi, the father of Akira and Takuya. When he died, Takuya claimed his right in an attempt to kill his older brother. Yet there were many supporters of Akira, not only in his own clan but also in other clans who had common interests in their dubious businesses. But Takuya didn’t know any scruples and a war flared up during the 90s. The second son won, and Akira fled.” Passing Emma back into John’s crook of the arm, Sherlock put steepled fingers in front of his mouth. “But how could he operate from prison? Probably his bodyguard took that part over. Yet, how did they find out about the witness protection program unless there’s a leak.” That was for sure, they needed to find the leak because this was their path to the employer.

“Who’s that?” John asked suddenly, stepping closer until his legs bumped into the sofa. He referred to a picture showing a grey-haired man in a black three-piece suit. Somehow this man didn’t fit into the other people’s scheme. Beside Koslow all victims or involved parties were Japanese but this man was despite the lacking quality of the photo without any doubt Caucasian.

Taking a red pen from the desk, Sherlock stepped in one swift movement onto the sofa and drew a circle around the picture. “I have no idea.” With an elegant jump from the sofa, he landed beside John. “I just found that photo yesterday in one of the scrambled files. There’s this photo and another.” He walked over to the desk, letting the mouse dance over the laptop to open another photo. John looked curiously over his friend’s shoulder.

Narrowing his eyes at the bad quality, his eyes snapped suddenly back onto the wall to Shinichiro Watanabe. The photo displayed the father and the unknown man in front of a wooden Japanese house, only that the man looked almost ten years younger than on the picture on the wall. “That’s him.” John murmured.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, “And I must say that he looks familiar to me but I can’t place him.” Annoyed he rubbed his temples with the tips of his index fingers. He had already scoured his mind palace for the man but his vision remained cloudy. “Maybe they carried on a trade, probably a customer; Russian? He could become the fourth victim if the employer hires a new assassin.”

John was a bit alarmed. “Did they found other memory sticks with the killer?”

“No. It seems we’ve got the only one.” Neither in the old factory nor in the flat of Shiori Ono in Edinburgh was anything case-related to be found.

“Sherlock,” John tried to reason his friend, “If there’s a possibility of a fourth victim we should pass these information to Lestrade.” Sherlock made a face. It was his case now, and he barely wanted to give such case back or share it. But John had a point. The detective inspector had better access to crime data, and thus he could find the unknown man faster. Nodding reluctantly, he pulled his mobile out of his trouser pocket to type a message.

***

After another two weeks Billy had the rest of the files deciphered. Sherlock paid him and gave the advice better to duck his head for a while.

It was late afternoon when John visited the surgeon in the hospital. The shoulder blade was still fractured but the bullet wound had healed completely. John was glad because he got rid of the bandage at last. Due to the chafing his skin was all raw, and it had started to itch uncontrollably.

Emma had waited with Sherlock at the morgue. He had another look at the toxicological report of the assassin’s body. The murderer got enough muscle relaxant into his system which had killed him before he was hanged. Then why did the killer want it to look like suicide? It was a nagging thought which never left his mind. What was the missing piece to solve this puzzle?

When they arrived at home, John prepared tea. Emma played under her activity gym, giving vociferously her voice to her new favorite babbling _dadadadada_. Sherlock seemed unperturbed, given the fact that he was focused on the case, standing in front of the sofa, frowning.

Their domesticity was suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Hudson. “Boys?” Three short raps at the door accompanied her entry, “There’s someone downstairs asking for you. Haven’t you heard the doorbell?”

“Put it in the fridge.” Sherlock mumbled casually. “Any ringing could wake Emma if she slept.”

“Shall I bring him up?” Mrs. Hudson looked to John questioningly because Sherlock simply kept looking at the notes on the wall, trying to find any hidden clues.

“Sure.” John replied. Sherlock would probably turn the client down nonetheless because he was in the middle of another case but it wouldn’t hurt to at least hear his story.

Mrs. Hudson guided a man not older than John into the living room and then left. The man looked a little confused at Emma but then took the seat John had offered him. Sherlock on the other hand hadn’t yet moved and still stared at the wall. John was used to Sherlock’s behavior towards clients, and lounged into his armchair, ignoring his friend. “What can we do for you, Mr. …?”

“Richard Jenkins.” The man offered his name nervously, squinting unsurely to the detective in front of the wall. “I’m here because I need protection. I think someone wants to kill me.” He clenched his entwined fingers hard together; his body language speaking volumes of tension.

“Richard Jenkins!” Sherlock repeated the name, emphasizing every syllable, while he finally turned around, taking the picture of the man in. Brown cropped hair with a receding hairline, brown eyes with dark under-eye circles; casual wear, black jeans and a simple blue t-shirt, sneakers in case if he needed to run. “So you’re the man who’s held responsible for human error.”


	23. Illumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes how much he has endangered his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

Sherlock drew closer like a hawk to the man known as Richard Jenkins, never leaving eye contact. “Oh you’re in great danger, aren’t you?” Sherlock drawled.

“Excuse me,” Jenkins fidgeted in his seat nervously, “Do I know you?”

Sherlock drew the corners of his mouth downwards, tipping his head from one side to the other while weighing an answer, “Not in person but maybe you’ve seen me in newspapers.”

“Sherlock?” John’s spoke up warningly his voice with an edge of petulance, “The show-off thing, you know?” He waggled a finger between them, making clear that he couldn’t follow his friend.

Furrowing his brows, Sherlock asked in honest disbelief, “Surely you do remember Mr. Jenkins?”

“Nope!” Now he got John almost angry because he did this in front of a client.

Sherlock slumped his shoulders, relenting. “Richard Jenkins works at Wandsworth prison.” He declared, and suddenly John’s face lit up as he got aware of what Sherlock had in mind.

“How do you know that?” John’s glance cast on the man, looking for any clues of his appearance betraying that he was a prison officer.

Clearing his voice awkwardly, Sherlock explained simply, “I remember his name from the staff list, and so I just deduced that he must be the killer of our assassin. Isn’t that so, Mr. Jenkins?”

The man’s eyes widened at his exposure. Clearly he had sought help because someone threatened him but he hadn’t expected that the detective would immediately compromise him as a murderer. Sherlock glared at the man who seemed to be indecisive if he should run or stay. Eventually he decided for the latter. He was simply too afraid of not having the help of Sherlock Holmes.

“Do tell your story.” John urged.

The man bowed his head defeated, looking at his flexing fingers. “Mr. Holmes is right. I work at Wandsworth prison. I was instructed to kill Joe Bloggs whose true name we didn’t know. He simply rejected to reveal his identity.”

“Who instructed you?” Sherlock took two long strides, ready to pounce on his prey.

Jenkins eyes stung with tears of fear as he watched shocked at Sherlock, “I…,” He stuttered hoarsely, “I cannot tell.”

“Mr. Jenkins,” John appealed to the man by leaning forward in his armchair, his arms propping on his knees and clasping his hands, “How’re we supposed to protect you if we don’t know against whom we should protect you.”

The man’s eyes widened and tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He shook his head defiantly as if he could throw off his pursuer and therefore all his problems. “He said he would kill my son and my ex-wife.” He blurted helplessly.

John shot Sherlock a meaningful glance before he stood up to rest a reassuring hand on Jenkins’ shoulder. “You came to us for a certain reason but we can only help you if you tell us the identity of the man who ordered you.”

Chewing his lips thoughtfully, Jenkins eyes wandered precariously between Sherlock and John. “Dorian Farnsworth.” He whispered, looking around as if someone else could have eavesdropped.

First Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Jenkins’ naming but when understanding hit him, he couldn’t suppress his “Oh!” John looked surprised up from the man who was a picture of misery. He knew Sherlock too well as to not know that he found a missing piece of the puzzle.

Without explaining any further, Sherlock darted to his laptop, typing frantically something into the search engine. John left Jenkins on the chair and followed his friend, lifting Emma carefully up from the floor. The little girl objected meekly but then snuggled contently in her father’s arm. Shooting their client a wary look, John had realized that even though Jenkins was forced to kill, he was a murderer nonetheless. He cursed silently under his breath that his gun was out of reach in a drawer of their bedroom.

“Lord Dorian Farnsworth.” Sherlock declared, turning his laptop to the room that John and Jenkins could have a look at a picture of a grey-haired man, almost bald. Piercing blue eyes made Jenkins flinch and avert his eyes. “From 1990 to 1998 he was the British ambassador in Japan.” John’s eyes snapped to the photo at the wall marked with an angry red circle. “He looks younger on that picture though but it’s definitely him. That’s why I couldn’t place him in the first instance.”

“A politician?” John asked in disbelief. What would an ambassador have to do with the Yakuza?

“Yes, and currently he fills a seat in the House of Lords. He’s a politician but also a very smart and ruthless businessman. You could say he leads the British pharmaceutical industry.”

“But why would he want the assassin dead?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock asked, knowing perfectly well the answer. “He’s the employer; the one that hired the assassin who became a liability, a risk.” He made that velar clicking sound to make his point clear. “That’s why he hired Mr. Jenkins to finish him off.” He locked cold eyes with the shivering man who wanted to protest but Sherlock proceeded unaffected, “But Mr. Jenkins made an error and overdosed the assassin with a muscle relaxant, so he died before he could hang him. The overdose was detected in the autopsy therefore the police knew that it wasn’t a suicide but murder. Like I said: _human error_.”

“And now he’ll come after me.” The man wailed, scrubbing his face with his hands.

Cradling Emma closer at the realization that yet another danger sat in their living room, John declared to Sherlock, “We cannot give him protection. That’s something the Yard must provide.”

At this Jenkins’ head jerked up, “No, not the police!” He shook his head vehemently, “Don’t you see, Lord Farnsworth has men everywhere, even within the police.” He pointed with both his hands to himself. “If the police lock me up in a prison I’ll be dead within twenty four hours.”

“He has a point.” Sherlock agreed, putting steepled fingers in front of his mouth pensively, “And you’re far too valuable than to risk your life. You’re our only connection to Lord Farnsworth and therefore our only witness.”

Grasping the full dilemma, John still insisted, “But he can’t stay here, Sherlock. I won’t risk Emma.”

Sherlock produced his mobile from his pocket, “Yes, that’s why he’ll stay with Lestrade.” Without leaving Jenkins another choice, he started texting the DI. In the end Sherlock understood why Mycroft wanted him to stay away from that case. He remembered there were rumors years ago mentioning Farnsworth involved in drug smuggling but they could never prove it. If Farnsworth was really that ruthless they had woken a dragon. Shooting John and Emma a cursory look he felt regret settling in his stomach that he hadn’t listened to his brother.

For now they needed to act quickly; Jenkins needed to be safe. Lestrade would take care of it without putting him into prison, at least as long as they hadn’t arrested Farnsworth. But the most burning question was, how would they prove that Farnsworth had hired the assassin. What could be his motives?

Indicating for John to wait with their client in the living room for Lestrade, Sherlock went to the bedroom, dialing Mycroft’s number. He heard the clicking sound on the other end of the line, not waiting for any formal greeting by his older brother. “What can you tell me about Lord Dorian Farnsworth?”

There was a moment of silence. “Good Lord,” sighed Mycroft, “Didn’t I tell you to stay out of that case?”

“Mycroft!” It was a soft warning. He rarely asked his brother for help but as realization hit him of how dangerous this situation had become, he knew that his brother was his last resort. Men like Farnsworth were riding waves of power and wealth, and everyone beneath of those waves would be crushed. Most certainly, John and Emma were beneath him. “How can we get away from him?”

There was a short pause and a shaky intake of breath. “You can’t. Why would you? What happened?”

“Here’s a man sitting in our living room who claims to be the murderer of the by Farnsworth hired assassin. Surely, Lord Farnsworth can put one and one together.” Hissing the last words, he tried to whisper his anger so John couldn’t eavesdrop his fury.

Mycroft weighed Sherlock’s words but replied eventually his initial question, “He’s like a kraken, has his arms everywhere. We don’t know for sure but he’s suspected being into drug smuggling, human trafficking and money laundry. Unfortunately we never could find any evidence against him, and believe me we tried very hard for the last twenty years.” He waited to let the information sink in to leave a well-placed warning, “Don’t try to nail him down. He’s far too powerful, too dangerous.”

“I think it’s too late for it.” Sherlock said absent-mindedly, his eyes staring unfocused in his room, while he realized the extent of his actions.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft naming his little brother drew him back to reality, “You’ll be save because of me. He wouldn’t dare to pounce on my brother but I fear for John and Emma then.”

The call with Mycroft had been dissatisfying because at last he had confirmed Sherlock’s worry but couldn’t add anything to help them out of their plight. Now it was too late, they already had woken the dragon. He had no other choice but to confront Farnsworth, and he must make the best of his way.

A few minutes later Lestrade arrived at 221B. It had been hard to convince the DI not to put Jenkins into prison immediately but Sherlock in his very manipulative manner explained that if the prison officer died in custody, they would never get to Farnsworth, and he added with a grim smile that it wouldn’t be beneficial for the Yard if another prisoner died within such a short timeframe. Eventually Lestrade gave in teeth-gnashingly, proposing that Jenkins would go underground at his brother’s home.

At the end of the day, John lounged onto the sofa beside Sherlock. Emma was sound asleep in her room. He threw his head into his neck, leaning it against the backrest and rubbing the heel of his right hand over his tired eyes. This case was getting on his nerves. “Ugh…” John moaned, intensifying the pressure on his eyes until he saw white stars, “I wish the case would already be over.”

Sherlock had been researching since Lestrade and Jenkins were gone, while John was left alone in handling Emma. He hadn’t complained because without the bandage around his torso he could move better, only the shoulder brace held his left arm still fixedly. Annoyed, Sherlock slammed his laptop shut. Mycroft had provided him with information about Dorian Farnsworth, anything on which he could rely on but like his brother already said, Farnsworth got always clean out of everything. “Like this, the case will never be over.” He chided for his own idiocy.

John smiled vaguely at his friend, “You’ll find a way.” John was always very confident about Sherlock’s skills in solving cases that even after being shot he never lost his faith in him.

“You’re always so optimistic.” Sherlock grumbled.

“Yes, of course I am. Apart from that how would I be able to live with you?” He snorted a laugh. Knowing that Sherlock ground his teeth because he was afraid that another assault on John would happen, he added a little sharper, “I don’t like to be reduced to a helpless idiot; I’m not the damsel in distress.”

At this Sherlock locked his blue eyes with John’s. He hadn’t thought of John as helpless; he was an army trained doctor who could perfectly well handle a gun. Yet it set Sherlock’s stomach all aflutter. He just hoped that Farnsworth would realize that hiring another assassin to kill them would attract too much public attention. If he just could find proof. Jenkins as a witness wouldn’t be enough. They could only prosecute Farnsworth for blackmailing Jenkins, and that wouldn’t be enough to let him rot in prison. Sighing at his own helplessness, Sherlock put the laptop aside. “I know that you’re not a damsel in distress.” A crooked smile played at the corners of his mouth while musing about John’s own choice of words. John returned the favor when a slight pang shot from his right shoulder to his tilted head.

The short flinch in John’s body softened the tension in Sherlock himself, reaching for his friend’s elbow, cupping it gently. He saw that the last weeks of stiffness in his shoulders were taking its toll on John’s muscles.

“Come here,” he said, bracing his elbow and indicating to the floor between his feet. First John looked incredulously not quite understanding what his friend had in his mind but then he realized that he was implying to sit down in front of Sherlock, so he could give John a relaxing back massage.

It was an intriguing thought sitting on the floor between Sherlock’s legs. If he tilted his head into his neck, his crown would definitely brush Sherlock’s crotch. Putting that tempting thought aside, he waited for Sherlock’s long fingers kneading the hard knots in his right shoulder away. Due to the missing symmetry his friend focused on a soft massage using both his hand on the healthy shoulder. Adept fingers and two very challenging thumbs rubbed warmly over sensitive spots. John had still his shirt on, and the friction of hands and cloth became uncomfortable after a while.

Suddenly Sherlock bent forward, his right arm snaking around John chest, searching for the buttons on John’s shirt. Feeling his friend’s hot breath at his ear, John swallowed as he realized he was holding his own breath. Sherlock was pushing the tiny buttons through the holes down to John’s navel, only to let invade his splayed hand under the thin fabric to find bare skin. He stroked gently upwards again to slip off the shirt of his right shoulder while the shoulder brace of the left held the shirt in place. John stifled a moan in his throat not wanting to betray his not quite appropriate arousal. Sherlock’s mischievous grin was hidden behind a well-placed kiss at John’s ear, a slight nibbling at the earlobe included, before he sat back again, resuming the kneading of the now bare shoulder.

Slowly but surely, John melted into the gentle massage, closing his eyes. He shifted slightly to adjust his position more comfortably, his legs cocked, and his feet bracing the floor because with his closed eyes he got the feeling of losing his balance. His right arm rested casually on his knee, his hand dangling in the air. While Sherlock freed some aching nerves from tensed muscles, John’s body reacted to the tender strokes with goose bumps running from the nape of his neck down his arms, leaving tiny impulses at his fingertips. He felt his stomach clench sweetly while his jeans got uncomfortably tight. Yearning for each touch, he wondered since when Sherlock had gotten this effect on him.

“Damn my shoulder.” He sighed softly, shaking his head, intrigued by the thought where this would lead them if he wasn’t injured. Straightening slightly he let his head fall back into his neck as far as his left shoulder would allow it. As presumed his crown brushed Sherlock’s crotch slightly, and John could feel his friend’s own erection hidden behind black suit trousers. His eyes were dilated, and he looked a bit embarrassed at John’s discovery. But John only smiled teasingly, “You’ll find a way.” He referred to their former aspect of solving the case but this time there was a hint of a promise in it; a promise, that as soon as John’s shoulder was healed, they didn’t need to stop at this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than anticipated but I’ve currently three children at home. I guess for the next two or three weeks I can only handle one update a week.


	24. Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221B meets an unexpected guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

Another fortnight passed, and Sherlock had been working every minute on the case to find evidence against Farnsworth. Even with the help of Mycroft he wasn’t successful, and started to consider a deal with the Lord. Sherlock hadn’t failed to notice that 221B were observed since the day Jenkins crossed their threshold. He realized that these men weren’t only Mycroft’s usual watchmen but as it seemed Farnsworth’s men either.

John was oblivious to their little peep show, and Sherlock didn’t have any intention to change that. Most certainly Farnsworth’s men just tried to figure out where Richard Jenkins was hiding. As long as they didn’t know that fact it would be unwise to take the next step.

Due to John’s upcoming rehab and physiotherapy, his work at the surgery as well as the work with Sherlock, he had decided to hire a nanny for Emma because Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be always available. Sherlock hadn’t liked that idea at all. He didn’t want some stranger in their flat, and above all he didn’t want to give Emma’s nurture to someone else; probably they would fail to give the little girl proper input, as Sherlock considered. But John had made up his mind. He was making a compromise to hire no live-in nanny but someone where they could leave Emma when they had their appointments. Sherlock gave in begrudged.

During the interviews it became very quick clear that Sherlock would turn every woman younger than forty years down, especially those who were John’s type. Next to that criterion, John observed, that no-one who competed for the vacancy was good enough in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Fine. I give up.” John scolded, raising his hands defeated. “Like this we’ll never find a nanny.”

“Don’t you see?” Sherlock bent over the candidacies, studying the photos of each applicant. “They’re all so dull. Emma deserves better.”

“Yeah, but until someone better applies for the job we need to make a decision now.” John tilted his head, a dark look glimmering in his eyes, “Or will you stay at home with Emma ignoring the work on cases until she goes to kindergarten?” Sherlock opened his mouth as if he wanted to reply but then stopped short, actually considering the proposal. John threw his head back in a mocking gesture, “Oh come on! Even though you love Emma, you’ll get bored within a month without cases, and I don’t want to find you showing Emma how to shoot that smiley on the wall with my gun.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes exaggeratedly when suddenly Mrs. Hudson knocked at their door, “Boys?” She interrupted their little argument, “There’s someone at the door who wants to see you.” And then she added with a nod, “Looks important.”

With a sudden jolt Sherlock strode to the window, pulling the curtain back to have a better look at their possible client. No. Not a client, as he observed. “I already asked myself when he would show up.”

“Who?” John asked, furrowing his brows apprehensively.

“Lord Dorian Farnsworth.” He shot the wall with all the information of the case a cautious look then stepped over the coffee table onto the sofa in one swift move to get the pictures and notes off the wall. “Let him in.” He told Mrs. Hudson while stowing away the evidence beneath some folders on the desk.

“Sherlock?” John’s question sounded reproachful and a bit alarmed.

“Don’t worry.” Sherlock turned to John, putting his hands on his shoulder in reassurance. “He’d be an idiot to come for trouble while Mycroft’s men are watching 221B.” That took some tension off John, yet he was glad that Emma was upstairs in her cot sleeping her afternoon nap. He didn’t want to meet such a menace with his daughter in his arm.

Hearing the approaching footsteps, they placed themselves in front of the chimney, John with crossed arms in front of his chest while Sherlock had folded his hands at his back; one who had closed himself defensively, and the other who stood openly for any conversation, unguarded.

“Lord Farnsworth.” Sherlock drawled, not making a show of affection.

The man was barely taller than Sherlock but beneath his well-tailored three-piece suit was a thoroughly fit body with broad shoulders hidden. He looked younger than his mid-fifties, only the receding gray hair betrayed his true age. He had a beaked nose and piercing blue eyes, sharp features rendering his face. He looked his two hosts up and down contemptuously, only to leave a punctuated huff of a laugh. “Somehow, I have imagined you more…” He rolled his hand in the air, searching for the right word, “… more impressive.”

John’s eyes glittered with anger at the man who had hired an assassin to execute five people, and now he had the nerve to insult them at their home. Power and wealth blinded some people, he thought sourly, hoping to get him quickly into prison.

Farnsworth hadn’t missed the glowering of John. “Well, I’m not here for flattery.” He waved his hand dismissively and a smug smile played at his lips, “I am here as a client.” His false smile even broadened threateningly, “I want you to find a murderer. His name’s Richard Jenkins.”

So it was a game he wanted to play, Sherlock realized. He had visited them at their most vulnerable place – at home – to check them out. But the most important detail Farnsworth had disclosed was that he still hadn’t any idea where Jenkins was hiding.

Narrowing his eyes in feigned unawareness, Sherlock replied, “Never heard of him.” John joined his friend’s acting and just shrugged his shoulders.

“It is believed that he murdered Joe Bloggs, the assassin you caught several weeks ago.” His sharp eyes lingered on John’s injured shoulder. Ignoring his opponents now, he walked dominantly through the living room, taking every detail in.

“That’s work for the Yard.” John interrupted, staring the intruder down.

“They seem to tread water.” Farnsworth replied absent-mindedly with his deep and quiet voice, his fingers skimming over the papers and folders on the desk curiously.

John strode indignantly across the room, almost slamming his hands on the desk, obscuring their stuff protectively, “Do you mind? This is private.” The taller man locked his dead eyes with John’s, and straightened his back.

“Why would you have an interest in finding that killer?” Sherlock challenged.

Farnsworth put his hands in his trouser pockets, tapping his toes. “He’s a police officer and a murderer.” He almost sounded affronted at the aspect to explain himself. “Where do we get if people tend to vigilantism?” The ambiguity of his meaning was clear to Sherlock; Farnsworth was mocking him and John in the hope to get any information about Jenkins. “Besides, we must know if he has valuable information about those nasty murders as well.”

“Surely we must.” Sherlock agreed, and Farnsworth’s eyes sparkled dangerously, betraying a storm of rage behind his jewels of vision.

There was a moment of silence when suddenly a whimper from upstairs interrupted their equivocal conversation. _Shit!_ John thought, closing his eyes for a second. He didn’t want to let Farnsworth know that they had a baby at 221B.

“I think the discussion is over.” Sherlock put an end to their game. “I decline your request, Lord Farnsworth.” After their little talk it was quite clear to Sherlock that there was no point in negotiating with that man. He might concede for the moment but in the end Farnsworth wouldn’t neglect to get rid of a liability.

Farnsworth’s smug expression had slipped off his face, and he glowered at Sherlock with equal irritation. It seemed that he wasn’t used to be turned down. Inside his trouser pockets John could see how hard the Lord clenched his fists, and John already prepared himself mentally to chuck the man out. “You should have taken my offer, Mr. Holmes.” He said eventually, crossing hesitantly the living room and never leaving his eyes of Sherlock, as if he hoped that the detective would still change his mind.

But he met disappointment, and so he left 221B. Upstairs Emma still whimpered softly, waiting for her daddies while the receding footsteps of Farnsworth downstairs indicated his leaving. Sherlock pulled the curtain of the window back again to see the man climb into a black limousine, accompanied by a bodyguard. Obviously he hadn’t seen a threat in the residents of 221B to bring up his bodyguard nor did he think he would have needed him to intimidate John and Sherlock to at least consider his offer.

“What offer?” John stood in the middle of their living room, ready to go upstairs and soothe Emma.

Sherlock ignored him, staying silent, and John decided to get Emma before she started to protest louder because no-one came to her. Clenching his teeth, Sherlock perused every possible scenario about what Farnsworth could have meant. The offer itself was irrelevant, it was a threat. John and Sherlock were already in the middle of this firefight; they had become a liability like Jenkins. He could have solved the problem as neat as possible with their cooperation but without their help he needed to take further nasty steps. His eyes widened slowly as understanding dawned on him.

Behind him he heard Emma’s babbling voice, obviously happy about not being alone in her room anymore. “Sherlock, what did Farnsworth mean?” John repeated his question a bit more urgent as concern crept up his spine.

“The son…” Sherlock breathed appalled.

“Whose son?” But as soon as the words had left his mouth, John knew the answer already.

Sherlock retrieved his mobile from his pocket, dialing Lestrade’s number. “Richard Jenkins’ son. Farnsworth will have Jenkins’ son abducted, if he hasn’t already.”

Instinctively John cradled Emma closer, a father’s reaction to such a horrible crime. He remembered the picture of the son from Lestrade’s folder, a seven year old boy, innocent in all his being. “Jesus.”

“It’s me,” Sherlock spoke when the DI on the other end of the line greeted him, “Do you know where Richard Jenkins is at the moment?”

Confused at the question, Lestrade stuttered that Jenkins was supposed to be with his brother near Harlow, where his brother owned a house. The DI and his brother had agreed that if something suspicious would occur he would call Lestrade. So far he hadn’t received a call.

“I assume that Jenkins has left or will at least leave your brother’s protection. Farnsworth was here and implied that he has Jenkins’ son to decoy him out of his hiding place. Get in touch with your brother. I’ll try to get through to Jenkins.”

“Damn!” This was Lestrade’s word which ended the call because Sherlock hung up, not waiting for any further intellectual gush, and scrolled through his contact numbers, looking for Jenkins’.

“John,” He addressed his friend, never looking up from the small screen, “Emma needs to stay with Mrs. Hudson.” When he had found the number, he pressed the phone back to his ear waiting impatiently for Jenkins to pick up. John hadn’t time to think properly but he went eventually downstairs to entrust his daughter once more to Mrs. Hudson’s care.

“Who’s there?” Jenkins’ voice was hoarse and sounded nervous.

“Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Jenkins,” He addressed the other man with a sharp, clear voice which screamed for attention, “I know Lord Farnsworth is blackmailing you again.”

“He has my son,” wailed Jenkins breathless which indicated that he wasn’t in the safety of Lestrade’s brother’s home but moving, faint noises of traffic were audible through the phone. He cursed under his breath. So Farnsworth had been in touch with the police officer and the use of present tense meant that he already had abducted his son, probably even before he paid a visit to 221B.

“I know.” Sherlock tried to sound empathetically which wasn’t his best trait. “We’re coming to help you but I need to know where Farnsworth wants you to meet.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I won’t risk the life of my son.” He voice broke at the last word, and he ended the call.

“No…” Sherlock shouted into the speaker, noticing that it was too late. For a moment he stared helpless at his mobile, one hand combing desperately through his hair. Then he turned abruptly to take a seat at his desk, opening his laptop. Lestrade had granted him access to the police’s tool for mobile data capturing, a tracker to find every person using a mobile. He typed the mobile number of Jenkins, and only seconds later he found him still near Harlow. Sherlock sighed in relief because that meant he just left Lestrade’s brother. Producing his mobile he opened the tracker tool as well, and darted for their bedroom to retrieve John’s Sig from his drawer. Taking two steps at a time, he called downstairs for his friend, “John! Come on, now.”

Flagging a cab, John followed him outside. “Did you get Jenkins?”

“He will sacrifice himself,” he showed John his mobile, tracking down the signal Jenkins’ mobile was producing, “We’ll follow him.”

John creased his forehead and replied hesitantly, leaving a last lingering look at the front door, “Okay.” As if Sherlock could have read his mind, he handed his friend the Sig over. A small approving smile crossed his lips, and he tucked the cold metal behind the waistband of his jeans, well hidden by his grey cardigan. It was still a weird feeling to hold his gun with his right hand.

They chased the taxi straight through London northwards. The cabbie was a bit irritated because Sherlock hadn’t told him their final destination, just a vague direction. When they neared the London Orbital Motorway, Sherlock noticed that Jenkins hadn’t moved anymore. Enlarging the map he could see that he was near the King George’s Reservoir. Finally the cabbie got an address and drove their weird passengers to their requested destination.

The red dot marking Jenkins’ position was a condemned two-storied building which probably was meant to be once a house for the security guards at the entrance of the reservoir. The windows of the first floor were all broken, and there was some graffiti at the wooden front door.

The door wasn’t closed but slightly ajar. John shoved himself protectively in front of Sherlock, weighing his gun in his right hand. Carefully he pushed the door open, hoping not to make any unnecessary noises. The house was empty besides an overturned table, shattered window glass spreading on the floor. It was a filthy place, a mix of dust and mud; remnants of the last days’ weather which found its way into the building through the broken windows. There lingered an earthy smell in the air.

Slowly John cleared the two rooms of the first floor with accurate prudence. Every step was deliberately chosen not to make any noise, his body tense, ready to lunge at their unknown enemy. Sherlock stayed well behind him and indicated with his hand to the staircase.

Cautiously they scuffed with their feet the steps before putting full weight onto them, not only to test the rotten wood but also to hear if the steps would release a creak. The second floor was divided in two further rooms. To their right the door stood wide open, and they could see Jenkins kneeling on the floor, cradling a boy with short blond hair in his arms. John put his hand with the gun up to indicate for Sherlock to stay behind while he rounded the door to take a look into the room. Jenkins had buried his face into the crook of his son’s neck, tears running down his cheeks.

There was an old bed without a mattress behind the door, nothing else, and Sherlock stepped into the room as well. He grabbed one shoulder of Jenkins to make him aware of their presence. The man looked up with wide eyes, shaking his head vehemently, and Sherlock understood; although the room was empty besides the four people it didn’t mean they were alone.

John had placed himself in the door when suddenly cold metal met his temple. He didn’t need to turn his face to know a muzzle of a handgun. The assassin was barely taller than himself, clad in black clothes. His breathing quickened as he inhaled a too well known perfume; Claire De La Lune.

“Mary?” He heard himself say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve found my way to Tumblr eventually. So if you want to catch up with me, you find me here: nymeria578.tumblr.com


	25. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The confrontation with Mary reopens old sores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :)

She had heard faint footsteps and the rustling of clothes approaching the second floor. Putting her job on hold, she left the man with his son and sneaked to the other room. She left the door stand open because the intruders would have a good view from the staircase to the room where her job waited to be accomplished. Father and son became bait for whoever disturbed her finishing the gruesome job.

They hadn’t talked so she needed to orient herself with the aid of noises. They were two. Receding footsteps indicated that one of them went into the room, while the rustling of clothes of the second implied to be hunkered down beside the man and his son. She inhaled deeply and then held her breath to align her arm, tensing muscles to clutch tight her semi-automatic pistol with a silencer in front. Carefully she crept back to the room, her back to the wall. Due to approaching footsteps she perceived that one of them drew closer to the doorframe again, probably still scanning the area. She could see his shoulder lingering at the door as she decided to ambush him, abandoning the protection of the wall at her back, whirling around to point the muzzle of her gun onto the man’s temple.

“Mary?” She knew that voice too well, and her heart rate increased uncomfortably. The adrenaline in her body gave her steadiness but this pulled the rug out from under her feet. With a short glance she had scanned the room. Sherlock was kneeling beside Jenkins and his son, as presumed. He was unarmed, dressed in his usual black two-piece suit, the vee of a white shirt shimmering through his jacket, bewildered eyes looking at her figure. Her eyes flickered for a second down to her ex-husband’s hand where he held his Sig at the ready.

Weighing her options, she decided to let her gun raised but she retreated one step to give John some space to compose himself. She hadn’t seen her ex-husband for months. His weathered face was still the same, some of the worry lines had dwindled. It seemed he had gotten over the hard times when she had been arrested. Over his gray cardigan was a shoulder brace fixating his left arm, and a small frown crossed her face. But for now, her most burning question was why fate screwed her up so much as to confront her again with the man she loved. “John.” She tried to let her voice sound resolute. “Why are you here?” It was a stupid question. A glimpse to Sherlock let her know that they were on a case. Did they track her down on purpose? Or where they hired by Richard Jenkins and their encounter was a coincidence?

She had never asked her clients for further information about her jobs. They contacted her, gave her the details, and she decided to take the job or not. Jenkins was a murderer as far as she had been informed. His son had been used to bait him here. Of course she hadn’t intended to kill a seven year old boy.

Sherlock could read her within seconds so she kept her mask on, not lowering her arm but letting John see the muzzle to make her point clear. Anyway, she wasn’t sure if her ex-husband would try to arrest her, and that was something she was determined to never allow again.

“Saving a man and his son,” John’s voice sounded spiteful for the first time betraying hatred, “Why are _you_ here?” When Mary had escaped from prison, John always had assumed that she would go into hiding only to reappear with a new identity when the waters were soothed. He had never thought of her going back to her old self, becoming a hired assassin again. That is why he never presumed to encounter her in such a case. The dull ache in his stomach convulsing his organs was born of a mix of disappointment and hate now. Looking at the open hole of the muzzle, he snorted a laugh not giving in to the itching feeling of raising his own gun to point at his ex-wife. There were so many thoughts crossing his mind that he started to feel dizzy but one thought recurred over and over again – Emma.

Somehow he had believed that Mary would have changed for her daughter, leaving her selfish and egoistical being behind; if not for John than at least for Emma. “Her name’s Emma, you know.” He drawled hoarsely, realizing that his ex-wife never heard the name of _their_ daughter before. Everything inside him screamed at Mary angrily, why she always thought of herself first.

Sherlock had gotten up, spreading himself out in front of Jenkins and his son protectively. He tried to deduce the woman who was once Mary Watson but she had put her mask on, concealing her true self, and he remembered the moment when he was too confident to assume she would never shoot at him. His glance lit on John worriedly. Would she shoot her ex-husband if need be? Would she put her work first before John?

“Mary? Please.” His baritone voice sounded calm but hoarse, betraying the edge of doubt. He didn’t know what his plea implied. Please don’t kill John? Please don’t kill anybody? Please lower your weapon? Please don’t hurt John any further?

The former Mrs. Watson locked cold eyes with Sherlock. It was due to him that John learnt about her past, and that was a fact which she could never forgive him, not in a way to raise her gun at the detective but emotionally because he had destroyed her life. Swallowing the lump off her throat, she finally lowered her gun, dropping the hand to her side but never loosening the hard grip around the butt, her index finger still at the trigger. “You know why I’m here.” She spoke calmly, her expression sharp.

John shook his head vehemently, as if he didn’t want to believe what his ex-wife just had said. “You’ll never change.” The remark sounded sad, realizing that his hopes had faltered.

Locking hurt blue eyes with John’s, she countered bitterly, “My client can be very _convincing_.”

At this Sherlock tilted his head in a silent question, taking a deliberate step forward. “So Farnsworth is blackmailing you as well?”

Her eyes snapped to Sherlock at the name of her client. So they weren’t chasing her down but their case involved Dorian Farnsworth. “He’s a former client, and he’s paying very good money.” She didn’t deny his question but she made a valuable point. After escaping prison she needed of course a new asset to live on. As long as she didn’t have enough money she wasn’t able to take a new identity.

Her features softened slightly, as she watched Sherlock’s deduction. “And what now?” John’s question drew her focus back to her ex-husband. “Will you kill us all?” Involuntarily his grip on his gun tightened.

Mary was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. How could John actually ask such a question? “Of course not.” It was a whisper conveyed through thin air, and they heard a faint whimper of Jenkins, realizing that his life would be safe now. Her eyes filled with water, tears threatening to roll down her cheeks.

Sherlock stepped closer to John, taking the Sig from his clenched hand. Neither of them had the intention to raise the weapon against her but if Mary would change her mind, it wouldn’t be John who needed to make a decision. John felt the warm brush of Sherlock’s hand, tentatively easing John’s fingers off the butt, his thumb lingering a second longer, stroking across the palm.

Mary recoiled two steps, her voice alarmed but determined, “I won’t get arrested, Sherlock.”

He blinked slowly, trying to even his own storm of emotions. First he didn’t understand what made his heart hammer in his chest rapidly. It wasn’t only the fear of Mary being able to kill them but the knowledge that John had once fallen in love with her. John had been angry with her since she gave him the USB flash drive with the imprint of A.G.R.A. but today she had shattered his hopes, his last flicker of belief in the good in her. John was devastated, Sherlock could see, and that made his own heart ache.

“I know.” How could he raise a gun at her? Because that would be the only possibility for them to catch her? The last time John had delivered her to the police he had blamed himself for betraying his wife and doubted his decision until the day they got divorced when John came home to face Sherlock with a decision of leaving or staying. It seemed ages ago, and yet Mary tore open those old sores again. His grip tightened around the butt of the Sig, “Yet I won’t let you kill Jenkins or his son.”

“Farnsworth is a man of dubious prestige,” John spoke in a clipped tone, “He’s hiring murderers to execute innocent people. For God’s sake, Mary,” He inhaled deeply, sorting his thoughts, “You’ve abducted a seven year old child.”

“I would have never…” She interrupted, her look dragging to the boy.

“No, you would have never killed that boy but you would have taken the father away from the son forever.”

“He’s a murderer.” She declared, trying to excuse her actions.

“But this is not for us to decide his verdict.” With each word his anger rose, his voice growing louder. “You let yourself use to do the same.”

In the distance they heard faintly sirens drawing closer to the old building. Mary fidgeted slightly as if she wanted to say something she didn’t dare to speak up but then decided against it, “I’m leaving now.”

There was a shift in her eyes and her whole look sharpened, the tears gone again. Her expression told everyone not to be in her way because she wouldn’t hesitate to take crucial actions. At the staircase her hand lingered a little longer than necessary on the banister before she went downstairs.

“She’s beautiful,” Sherlock suddenly broke the silence, “And very clever.” He couldn’t even hide a small pride smile. Mary’s eyes widened while she turned her face slowly towards her former friend. “She’ll always have a good life. I promise.” Her lips parted in surprise at the emotional comfort of Sherlock while her ex-husband’s eyes were cast down in disappointment and anger. The man who had been famous for emotional coldness, and the man who had been known as the heart of the duo had switched roles. And then she understood, and gave a curt nod in appreciation before she darted downwards to flee the crime scene.

When they heard the creaking of the front door, and approaching sirens hooting the police’s arrival, John was dragged back to reality. He slammed his right fist hard against the rotting doorframe, sending splinters through the air, while the skin of the knuckle of his middle finger tore open and an angry red fluid dripped down his fingers, “Dammit!”

Sherlock had given Lestrade the address when their destination became clear. Whereas just minutes ago they had looked into the barrel of a gun the house was suddenly flooded with police officers. Sally Donovan was her usual spiteful self, ignoring Sherlock. She took care of Jenkins and his son while Lestrade inquired Sherlock. They realized that Jenkins cover was blown. Donovan handcuffed him while the son was given over to another police officer who took care of him until his mother arrived. Jenkins didn’t object but seemed rather relieved; even though his life was still endangered in prison he got his son out of the firing line.

While Sherlock surprisingly answered every question with patience he tried to protect John from the pain which arose again when facing those queries. He was rather unfocused and hated the pitying glances from Lestrade about the confrontation with Mary. He stayed silent while Sherlock told their story, slightly altering the ending. According to him Mary left with her gun at the ready which explained their inactivity.

They had ordered a taxi by phone, and John was grateful for the silence of not having anybody but Sherlock around. He tried to focus again, thinking of the crimes Mary had carried out but in the end it left him clueless. How could she excuse her behavior of killing someone with justice, if she wasn’t any better than any other murderer?

Sherlock sensed the brooding of his friend and felt the urge to comfort him, dissipating the emotional hurt. But it wasn’t that easy. John was looking out of the window not seeing anything in particular, his whole body had been turned away from Sherlock. He had his elbow propped up at the window frame, his chin resting in his hand while the other was tightly fixated to his chest. Even a tentative touch to his fingers was prohibited by his sub consciousness. All Sherlock wanted to do was to hold John but he was simply not allowed, and this confused him.

When they arrived at Baker Street John still hadn’t told a word, and Sherlock was plainly too uncertain to face John with reality than to get rejection. It was unusual that John left the cab first so Sherlock paid the cabbie indicating that he could keep the change. Sherlock had the key, and John waited for him at the front door, watching his long shadow under the evening sun which painted the sky in a bright pink. While climbing the steps to their flat, Sherlock started to chew his bottom lip. For the first time he couldn’t stand the silence which sometimes engulfed them comfortably. John in his brooding mood wasn’t new to him; when Mary revealed her identity to his friend it had been almost the same. But now there was a game changer – they had a relationship beyond friendship. On the last step of the staircase he turned around to look into John’s darkened eyes. “John, I…” But he didn’t have the chance to finish the sentence when one strong hand took a tight grip on his jacket and shirt, pushing him hard against the wall and pressing his lips on Sherlock’s.

Sherlock was simply too stunned than to react coherently. John’s eyes were half-open drinking his friend’s features in as if he would drown when he wouldn’t do it. His injured shoulder was forgotten; the fracture was almost healed anyway, he just should take care of it by resting it. Pressing his broad frame against Sherlock’s slender body, he could feel the strength of his short friend. His hand loosened his grip on the clothes and wandered upward to cup Sherlock’s face, drawing him down into the desperate kiss.

In the last couple of weeks they had enjoyed every kiss, tender and slow, leaving them frustrated at the fact that no more had been possible by then. But this time the kiss was urgent; stroking tongues, sucking lips, clattering teeth. Usually it was Sherlock who initiated the kisses, morning kisses or goodnight kisses, or just when he marveled at John’s uniqueness. He had always wished that John would take the step to kiss Sherlock beside the first time for their experiment. And now that it actually happened it didn’t feel right. Sherlock had never been the smartest in understanding of sentiment but John’s behavior screamed of frustration; he just needed this kiss to silence the gush of hurtful emotions, hoping to forget his inner turmoil.

But as appalling as it was, Sherlock didn’t have the strength to pull away. Somehow this was another level of physical attraction, and he wanted to taste it just a moment longer. Realization of his own arousal let a moan escape the deep of his throat.

Encouraged by Sherlock’s unspoken consent, John let his hand fall to the button of his friend’s jacket to open it. He tried desperately to forget the images of the afternoon by focusing on Sherlock’s body. There was a nagging thought at the back of his head that it wasn’t right because he would use his friend to get rid of images of his ex-wife. But his hand didn’t even stop at the button of Sherlock’s trousers. He released the tension of the waistband to pull out the shirt tails. In the meantime his mouth had wandered to Sherlock’s jaw, nibbling and sucking every inch of skin he found. His hand had wound its way beneath the thin fabric of the white button-down shirt, feeling the ragged breathing of his friend. Pressing his splayed hand on Sherlock’s plane abdominal muscle, he recaptured his mouth again, the kiss growing tender now. John’s hand roamed over a thin line of sparse hair to the navel, further upwards taking in the lean structure and brushing over the buds of Sherlock’s tightened nipples. Their bodies were hopelessly clutched together, searching every friction they could get of each other. John’s hand had rambled to the small of Sherlock’s back when his friend had broken free from the entrancing feeling of John’s mouth. Looking at the ceiling, he groaned in frustration at his self-imposed rationality, while he tried to even his ragged breath. “That’s not right.” The baritone voice sounded in the landing, his body wincing at the sudden loss of John’s warm hand.

When John didn’t say anything, he cast his dilated pupils down on John’s dark pools. What he saw was hurt but not only the emotional hurt of the afternoon but also hurt of rejection. John took a step back, bumping into the wooden hand railing and averting his glance. “John,” Sherlock appealed to his friend, being not used at left out in the cold, “Don’t get that wrong.” He struggled for words to explain his own storm of feelings. “I want that to happen but when it happens I want _you_ with your full attention on _me_.”

Involuntarily John’s hand grabbed his injured shoulder, playing absent-mindedly with the stripes as if he wanted to rip the brace off. “The shoulder is fine. The fractures are healed. It’s just a matter of physiotherapy.” He muttered stubbornly, “It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes because John had completely mistaken his meaning, “I don’t speak of your physical hurt but of your emotional hurt.” He tucked the shirt tails back into his trousers, buttoning it up.

He hated it when Sherlock could deduce him like an open book. “Right, sociopath. I forgot.” He spat disappointedly at his own incapability of hiding his inner turmoil.

That made Sherlock angry. Of all the people John knew the disguise of his being a sociopath. He clenched his jaw to suppress an equal kind of insult. Instead his voice grew resentfully loud, “No, you seem to forget that I don’t want to have sex with you while your thoughts are caught on the incidents of this afternoon full of images of your ex-wife.” He swallowed hard at the realization that a hint of jealousy made him snap the last word. “I don’t want to be used as a tactic to oblivion, John. I just want all of you, as selfish as it may sound.”

John’s eyes betrayed an edge of surprise, dismay and stubbornness. But Sherlock was right, he knew that, yet he couldn’t bring himself to admit it not only to his friend but also to himself. Flaring his nostrils at the emotionally stripping, he sniffed curtly, “All right.”

Passing Sherlock to enter the flat, he found Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen buzzing around to clean the surface which was already sparkling of too much wiping. Obviously the landlady had heard their little dispute. “Oh, John,” she turned around, putting the washcloth into the sink, “Emma’s already sleeping soundly in her cot.”

A strained smile crossed his lips, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

The landlady almost fled the flat. Usually she would give some good advice to them but eavesdropping Sherlock’s argument she rather decided to back out. While John stormed off into their bedroom, Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket, draping the expensive cloth on his armchair. His eyes lit on his violin, considering for a moment to play something which would match his mood. But then John reappeared from their bedroom, his duvet and pillow in his arm.

Frowning at his friend, he guessed what John was up to. “What’re you doing?”

“Since I have no bed of my own anymore, I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight.” His voice sounded calm again but with an edge of sarcasm. He flung his stuff passionless onto the sofa.

It hurt. Such stubbornness hurt. Sherlock pressed his lips to a thin line. “Fine.” He took the violin and without any further word, he walked to the bedroom, slamming the door shut. Love hurt. _Then it should be truly considered as a disadvantage_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m off to a trip to Paris the week, so there’ll be no update before next Sunday at the earliest (depends on how often I have the possibility to write). It could take a little longer.
> 
> My Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/


	26. Damocles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John contemplates his mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

A look at John’s wristwatch showed him that it wasn’t past four o’clock in the morning yet. His storm of rage had ebbed away to a faint breeze. He was still slightly angry but his annoyance didn’t focus to Sherlock anymore but to himself.

Sherlock had played the violin half the night without waking Emma. The tunes revealed his friend’s mood which was reflected by John’s own feelings. First they were wild incoherent screeching tones, trying desperately to find their peace within deeper compositions but they failed miserably. Just after a while they found a new calm rhythm, and John’s heart started to hurt at the sad depiction of music. That was the time when his fury had ebbed to a dull clench in his stomach, realizing his own stupidity. What had he expected of Sherlock?

Of course his friend wouldn’t want to be a substitute for his ex-wife. And that was what he exactly assumed he would be, especially after that afternoon. If John would be honest with himself, he actually sort of would have been. Sherlock pointed it correctly out; John would have used his friend to mute the miserable feelings which left him desolate after meeting Mary.

At two o’clock the music stopped, and John pressed his right hand to his eye until he saw stars behind his closed lid. His feelings were a swirl of stubbornness, regret and annoyance. He half-expected Sherlock to show up in the kitchen to make himself a tea after the long play but he remained in the bedroom. Chewing his bottom lip, John considered briefly if he should crawl back into their bed, embracing his friend and mumbling an apology, but he was simply too afraid that he wasn’t welcomed.

He had seen Sherlock outraged before but his anger was never directed at John. If he had a disagreement with John, his voice was still calm and reserved. Never had he crossed the line to unveil his mask and show his true face when John did something he disapproved. But this time John had provoked him as much even to get his voice loud; a strong baritone rolling wave of words at the disappointment of John’s failure to understand. Yet Sherlock’s voice got never the sharp edgy undertone with which he countered other people’s boring statements. Instead John remembered his own upset voice when he spat his arguments.

Wincing at the memory he didn’t dare to go into their bedroom, and since Sherlock also didn’t show up in the kitchen, he tucked the duvet up to his nose, closing his eyes and hoping to find some oblivion in sleep. But since sleep didn’t come, he drifted between looking onto his watch for the time and the incidents of the afternoon. Most urgently nagged the thought of how they would solve this damned case.

Since Mary didn’t fulfill her job, it was merely a matter of time when Farnsworth would consider his next step. But what would be his next step? His ex-wife would most certainly back out now that she knew that Sherlock and John were involved in the case. Oh, how he hoped to see her never again whereas several months ago he almost had begged to know where she was and what she did; it was kind of a resignation. Mary made her point clear; she would find a new life whatever it would cost, she would pay the price or someone else would for her benefit. Shaking his head disappointedly he tried to get rid of all the images, and finally he succumbed to a merciful dreamless sleep.

John woke to Sherlock’s crooning voice. While he blinked himself from the bleariness of sleep he noticed the bright sunlight flooding through the curtains of the windows. He felt warm and blissful, and somehow he hoped the smooth baritone voice was humming for him to get him out of his slumber. Unfortunately the surreal memories of the day before crept up his mind, and he felt suddenly cold and slightly nauseated, his furred tongue sticking to his velum.

His friend’s calm voice was accompanied by a squeaking babbling voice – Emma. A slight guilty blush painted his cheeks as he realized that he hadn’t heard her whimpers. Slowly he propped himself up on his elbows, looking over his shoulder through two open doors to find them sitting on a kitchen chair. There were two mugs on the table in front of Sherlock which could only mean he wasn’t too cross with John as to ignore him of making him tea as well. He held Emma close while she sucked greedily at her milk bottle.

John swung his legs over the edge of the sofa, bracing them on the floor while the numbness of sleeping in an uncomfortable position faded from his feet. Heavy steps made him go to the kitchen to face the truth of the evening before.

In the kitchen entrance he didn’t know what to do or to say, so he lingered there for a while, observing Sherlock with Emma. His friend sat with the back to the door but a slight lift of his head let John know that he hadn’t went unnoticed.

“Morning.” It was a hoarse mumble full of regret, but John couldn’t bring himself to move or say any further and look into his friend’s eyes to find… what? Sadness, fury, disappointment?

“I’ve made you tea.” Sherlock’s chin pointed towards John’s mug. It was rare that the great detective condescended to make tea. Maybe that was a good sign? Unfortunately his voice didn’t betray anything else but the simple declaration of a fact.

Entering the kitchen hesitantly, John felt as if he was adhered to the door frame with his right shoulder. He dragged himself to the chair opposite Sherlock, grabbing his mug to take a deliberate sip and looking over the rim to find his friend watching Emma warmly, who was contently sucking at the nipple of the bottle. But beneath the affectionate expression for his daughter, John could also see a hurt look. Sherlock didn’t look up, and then John could also discern a hint of disappointment.

How often had Sherlock been betrayed by others previously? It almost broke John’s heart. The bullying in school was just a hint at the emotional hurt he experienced when he was a child. How it must have felt being accused by John? _Sociopath_. He had called him and cringed mentally. Calling himself a sociopath, was one thing, and Sherlock used it just as a pretense to be rude to people who were rude to him. And now John had used this vile word against Sherlock.

He put the mug down onto the table, “I’m so sorry.” For all the silence between them, John all but blurted those three words suddenly. He wanted to go back and amend the last evening.

Normally Sherlock bathed in bossiness, he needed it like flowers needed the sun, yet today he barely lifted his eyes, humming an agreement. John chewed his bottom lip at the curt nod. What else could he do?

“Look at me, please,” he begged eventually, waiting for Sherlock to lock tired blue eyes with him, “I am really sorry, not so much for debauching you,” a flicker of a shy smile crossed his lips, “because I think that was only a human reaction as well as yours was.” At this Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a mix of annoyance and mockery. “But,” John interrupted him as he was about to retort something witty, “I am sorry, for degrading you of something you’re clearly not.”

“You were emotionally compromised; it was just a natural reaction.” Sherlock spoke again in his full deep voice rumbling across the kitchen table. “But don’t do that again, ever.” It was a warning, and suddenly John realized that although Sherlock was clearly in love with him, he wouldn’t have problems with leaving him when John would draw that card again, so he nodded. As much as the last sentence was a warning, John was indeed surprised that Sherlock didn’t go into pouting mode for some days. Somehow he got more and more the feeling that Sherlock in a relationship full of sentiments was someone different in regard to social behavior with other people at all.

“Promise!”

When Emma had finished her bottle, John took her upstairs to change her nappy and put her in fresh clothes. Meanwhile, Sherlock called the only one potential nanny he had taken in consideration; a Mrs. Carlyle in her mid-fifties. She only lived three blocks away from Baker Streets, which meant bringing and picking Emma up would not last more than ten minutes. Still it was a weird feeling to leave Emma in care of someone else, and Sherlock still felt the urge to discredit the nanny in every possible way just to keep Emma with them.

As soon as he had finished the call a short message by Lestrade made him clench his jaws.

_Jenkins’s backing out. He doesn’t want to testify against Farnsworth anymore. – Greg Lestrade._

Sherlock cursed under his breath, typing furiously back, almost commanding the DI to get Jenkins to the Yard because he wanted to have a word with him. Pacing back and forth, he tried to sort his thoughts. He needed to persuade Jenkins to testify. This whole case had endangered his family in the end. He lounged onto the sofa between John’s crumpled duvet and pillow, throwing his head into his neck to contemplate their options. John’s very own scent surrounded him, and rather than finding a solution he dozed off. No surprise; he had barely slept for two hours, and somehow everything involving John calmed him down. His hand was placed beside his leg, feeling the scratchy surface of the hook and loop fastener of John’s shoulder brace. Stroking across the hard fabric, he drifted back to reality, noticing that John hadn’t put it back on. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the remnant of the second to their last encounter with an assassin.

“Told you that I don’t need it anymore.” John stood in the door, Emma still in his right arm but bracing her securely with his injured arm. His eyes betrayed a hint of mischief, not referring to the last evening but to upcoming evenings.

A small knowing smile curled around Sherlock’s lips but then he remembered Lestrade’s text. He held his mobile up, “We need to go to the Yard. Lestrade’s having problems with Jenkins to testify against Farnsworth.”

John frowned at the news but composed himself quickly and retrieved the baby seat from their bedroom. Sated and with a fresh nappy Emma was content to have a seat and just playing with her beloved rattle.

Arriving at the Yard, Sherlock stormed into the office complex, ignoring the front desk to take the elevator directly to Lestrade’s office. By now, almost everyone there knew the consulting detective and didn’t felt disturbed by his sometimes harsh presence. Yet it was a rare sight to see him and his blogger with a little girl snuggled into a baby seat.

“Where is he?” Sherlock asked, ignoring Donovan’s petulant pouting at the intruder in the DI’s office.

Lestrade had just blown at the rim of his hot coffee cup when he realized that the black caffeinated fluid had to wait, “Come with me.”

Outside of his office waited John with Emma, and Lestrade sent her a heartwarming smile, “Hello, little girl.” But Sherlock nudged him on his shoulder, implying to save the baby talk for later.

The room where Jenkins waited was small, only a square table and two chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by a nervous man who had been folding his hands desperately, as if he needed to cling to himself. Sherlock turned around to face John and Lestrade. “Let me talk to him alone.” Again it wasn’t a question but rather an order. Lestrade rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s demand. “And switch off the cameras.” Without waiting for an answer, he whirled around to enter the room.

Jenkins looked up, his face immediately shifting into horror, “No, I won’t talk to you.”

“The camera’s off. Whatever will be said, remains between us.” Sherlock ignored the nervous man, hoping he would give in and at least talk to him.

Flicking his eyes back and forth, Jenkins expression faltered as if he wanted to start to cry any moment. He didn’t but instead he shook his head vehemently while Sherlock loomed over the man threateningly. “Now listen to me, you came to me because you sought help, very well aware of the danger you brought with you. You endangered my family as well as yours.” He all but hissed the last words, betraying the anger and disappointment towards the man.

“But you couldn’t help.” Jenkins indeed found a moment of courage flushing away his nervousness. “They got my son nonetheless. How am I supposed to protect my own family if I inflict danger upon them when playing witness against Farnsworth?”

Straightening himself again, Sherlock understood Jenkins’ dilemma, yet he wanted to reflect his own life and therefore decisions onto the man which wasn’t possible, “Because it’s the right thing to do.” He replied, not getting how Jenkins could not see the problems he had caused.

“Yes,” countered the man, “But the right thing would probably kill my family. Only because the last killer backed out, doesn’t mean Farnsworth can’t hire another one.”

“So you rather choose your family over mine, ignoring the possibility of pinning down Farnsworth beforehand.” Jenkins would most certainly save his son by staying silent and getting murdered in prison. He would sacrifice himself on the one hand but on the other hand he would drag John and Emma into a vortex of destruction simultaneously.

Jenkins eyes were wide with shock when he realized the extent of his doing but eventually he nodded, averting his gaze from Sherlock’s steady ice-blue stare. A man who hadn’t anything to loose anymore was the most dangerous man in the world. It didn’t quite apply to Jenkins who already lost everything he held dear but to Sherlock. It was a truth Sherlock always knew that he was prone to.

“They say that I am a psychopath, but I prefer rather sociopath, Mr. Jenkins.” He leant forward again, almost whispering into the man’s ear. “Don’t let me make threats but let me be very clear about this for once, I won’t lose _my_ family.”

On their drive back to 221B Emma had been placed between them on the backseats. Sherlock had told neither John nor Lestrade what he had been said to Jenkins. Now he sat silently in his seat, looking at nothing particular outside. The gray façades of the stony jungle of London passing by while his mind raced, searching for any solution but it was a dead end.

Rather than to consider other options he found himself reflecting over his very own character. What he had told Jenkins had been true, not just an empty threat as he had realized afterwards. How far would he go to protect John and Emma? What would he do, if he would lose them? There was a tiny mute voice answering his storm of emotions; _going insane_.

John played absent-mindedly with Emma, holding his hand in front of her face so she could grab happily his fingers. But he was not oblivious to Sherlock’s mood; whatever he had tried to convince Jenkins it didn’t seem to have worked. The events of the past few days were a disaster, he thought, sighing eventually, “Sherlock?”

It took a few seconds to draw the detective out of his contemplating back into reality. He blinked several times to get the blinding fear of choking on his own breath out of his mind, and noticed the real world around him, John looking at him worried.

“What’s it? What did you tell Jenkins?”

Frowning at his friend, he considered to tell him the truth but rather decided against it because he wasn’t sure if John would approve such measures. “Nothing,” He replied instead, “It doesn’t matter anyway.” A dismissive hand waved between them, implying that he wanted to drop the subject.

“Why?”

Sherlock sighed heavily, “Because he’ll never change his mind.”

John knew he wouldn’t need to dig into the subject any further because Sherlock laid out the plain fact and all the involved conversation with Jenkins was pointless. Turning his face to have a look outside the window himself, John started to torture his bottom lip again. This case was gradually getting on his nerves, so he changed the topic. “You do remember that I’m on a medical conference in three days, don’t you?” Sometimes John wasn’t quite sure if his friend would pay him as much attention in matters regarding outside of cases, that he rather asked one more time. The frown in Sherlock’s face spoke volumes, and John sighed at his own presumption. “Don’t tell me you deleted it?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock looked at John as if he had never mentioned it.

Rolling his eyes at his friend’s lack of listening to everything out of his interest, he suggested, “It would be nice when Emma and you would come with me.”

“Dull.”

“Oh come on. It’s in Brighton. Friday’s meant to be the arrival, Saturday I have eight hours of attendance, and Sunday just five hours. The remaining time we could go to the beach or…” He shrugged helplessly at Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, “… I don’t know.” Looking down at his fingers, he almost tasted the refusal, “It just would be nice not to go alone, leaving you and Emma behind with a threatening sword of Damocles over our heads. And you could get your mind a bit clear by a change of scenery.”

For a moment Sherlock actually considered John’s proposal. “You know me.” He tried to explain. “I would bristle and be bored without London around me. I wouldn’t be much of help.”

“Not help, Sherlock,” John interjected, “Company.”

Sherlock echoed the word mutely with his lips, realizing John’s meaning. This was a suggestion of a shared event outside of their work. The look in John’s steel blue eyes already betrayed disappointment as if he knew that Sherlock would back out. His pale blue eyes lit on Emma who would certainly miss her daddy again, remembering the time when John was in hospital. “All right.” He sighed, “We’ll go with you.”


	27. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John attends the medical conference, Mycroft shows up with new information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

Mycroft owned a small cottage near Brighton, and that’s were Sherlock intended to stay while John needed to attend the medical conference over the weekend. He still felt a bit uncomfortable outside of their home – and their work – but like this it didn’t feel too strange. First John had objected to use the cottage without asking but Sherlock had assured him that Mycroft wouldn’t disapprove their stay. His older brother didn’t have the time to enjoy the nice weather of Brighton anyway.

To be honest Sherlock awaited Mycroft’s dogmatic call every minute because he wouldn’t have missed their departure from London with all certainty. But whether his older brother would consent or not didn’t matter. They had a good reason to leave London, and Mycroft knew that exactly.

They had arrived the day before but there was barely time which they could have spent together. In the evening John needed to attend a dinner with all the participants of the conference, an introduction as it were. In the meantime, Sherlock had made himself comfortable on the old dark green chesterfield couch, reading comparing the case files with some forensic books while Emma was sound asleep on the first floor in one of the guest rooms after the long drive.

The next morning began early, and John had been invited to a lecture about migraine. Sherlock on the other hand had stayed behind at the cottage, playing with Emma and trying desperately to find a way out of Farnsworth reach. So far the Lord hadn’t contacted them again. But was that really a good sign? As the day progressed, the little girl got a bit impatient and whiny. Of course she got bored by the old-fashioned house, and Sherlock decided – against his very own nature – to take her for a walk with the baby stroller.

Despite his hatred of dull people around him, he hated it more to be alone in a boring house. That is why he decided to visit Brighton Marina Village. Emma could watch there the yachts at the pier or the sea on the beach, not to mention having fun of telling her what he deduced while observing other people.

The day was sunny and bright again – the summer in his full bloom. Yet Sherlock still wore his common black suit trousers and his favorite purple shirt, sleeves rolled up. There was no need for a jacket. He noticed the curious glances of the people around him but ignored them with practiced smugness. Brighton had become posh throughout the years, and seemingly a well-dressed man with a baby stroller was a rare sight.

Absorbed by all the new impressions, and Emma’s sweet babbling, Sherlock hadn’t noticed the black limousine pulled up at the curb. A man with a gray three-piece suit and an umbrella stepped out of the car, “Enjoying your holiday?” Mycroft’s voice betrayed a hint of sarcasm while he braced his weight on his black accessory.

“So far as I recall the weather report of the morning properly, there won’t be any rain today.” Sherlock plainly ignored his older brother’s skit, looking at the umbrella which he always had suspected was more than just a rain shelter.

Pulling a face, Mycroft sighed, “You should have told me of your trip – for your own safety.” The man with the hooked nose scanned the area suspiciously. Of course he was concerned about his little brother. As long as Sherlock and John stayed in the safety of Baker Street 221B with his bodyguards watching them, Farnsworth wouldn’t dare to pounce on them but outside of their sanctuary was another question. Sherlock admitted mentally that Mycroft made a valid point but he would never say such a thing aloud.

At the sudden halt Emma started to fidget in her seat and little whimpers entailed a warning that she grew impatient. Before her whines turned into serious cries, Sherlock scooped her up from the stroller. “Say hello to Uncle Mycroft.” Holding her to his older brother, he raised an eyebrow provokingly to imply that Mycroft could take her.

Drool threads ran down the corners of her mouth, and Mycroft wrinkled his nose slightly disgusted, shaking his head. “So I’ve been promoted.” He declared, looking with his sharp eyes at his little brother when he suddenly arched his brows in comprehension. _Oh!_

Cradling Emma close to his shoulder, Sherlock rolled his eyes at the inspiration of his brother. Because he didn’t want to relent into such topic, he asked instead, “Why’re you here?” Certainly his older brother wouldn’t let his government hold in abeyance when a security guard could have observed them as well.

“Certainly not for your newly found sex life.” A smug smile played subtly at the corner of his mouth but as fast as it had appeared it had vanished again, his expression hardening at the serious matter he came for. “I have something for you.” He produced a single sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, folded twice.

Balancing Emma in his arm, Sherlock unfolded the paper to find an enlarged picture of one of London Heathrow’s terminals. He narrowed his eyes at the man in the focus of the photograph, his lips parting gradually while his eyes suddenly widened as understanding dawned on him. _Oh!_

“I don’t know why he has come to London but be careful, Sherlock. He’s not bound to conventions like Farnsworth does.” Mycroft’s otherwise calm voice betrayed an edge of nervousness. “I’ve also sent you an email about what I found out about their connection.” He paused, locking concerned eyes with his little brother, “I’ve doubled your guards by now.”

Mycroft hadn’t lingered for long. After a short walk and some other good advices respectively instructions he left again. Sherlock had taken a seat on a wooden bench with a good view to the marina. While Emma finally took her afternoon nap half hidden in a shadow of a tree, which towered over them, Sherlock read the email of his older brother on his mobile.

When he had finished reading, digesting the new information, Sherlock sat heavily back. Now he understood Mycroft’s worry. The man on the picture was ruthless and beyond any conventions. Looking over his shoulder, he could detect one of his brother’s men and was indeed relieved to have a bit extra surveillance. Throwing his head back into his neck, he closed his eyes, contemplating whether he should tell John the details or not. Most certainly John would start to worry again. Scrubbing with his hand over his face, he groaned at the quandary. No. It wouldn’t do them any good when they lived in distress. Mycroft had assigned his best men to have a look at Sherlock, John and Emma. Whereas he didn’t trust his older brother in different matters, he did trust him to leave skilled men for his little brother. No. John didn’t need to know. Not yet, at least.

***

Sherlock had picked John up from the hotel where the conference was held. John had been delighted because he had never assumed that Sherlock would do him such a favor. However, his happy mood was marred by Sherlock’s own frowning mood. He didn’t say much, and even when they had arrived at the cottage, his friend had barely told about his day with Emma.

Knowing these moods of Sherlock, John had learnt to leave him in his brooding. Probably he was just rearranging once again all the facts of the case. Maybe he had found a new option which must be considered. While John relished the evening hours with his daughter, Sherlock had been sprawled over the chesterfield, putting steepled hands under his chin like in a silent prayer.

A rasping noise pierced through the silence of the room, and brought Sherlock back down to earth. John had removed his shoulder brace to start Emma’s evening ritual of bathing and feeding. In the meantime, Sherlock retrieved his mobile again from his trouser pocket in the hope of finding any clue in the content of Mycroft’s email; something that he probably had overlooked before.

Not realizing as time went by, he barely noticed when John came back from the guest room where his daughter was now sound asleep. Because Sherlock didn’t react, he nudged him gently at his hip to indicate making room for John to sit down as well. Lounging onto the leather sofa with a sigh, he took the newspaper off the chestnut wood coffee table. While Sherlock was brooding over the case, he could just as well inform himself about what had happened in the world.

Trying to focus on the black letters explaining the world’s politics, he felt the radiating heat of Sherlock beside him. No wonder, their legs up to their hips and their shoulders were glued together unconsciously. How was he supposed to focus on the news like this? How could Sherlock fixate his mind on the case like this?

With a sigh he let the newspaper fall into his lap, dragging his eyes to Sherlock who was absorbed by some information on his mobile. Unsure if he would cross a line, he chewed his bottom lip but stood up in the end, placing himself in front of Sherlock. Towering over his friend, he dared to take the mobile out of his hands and earned a questioning look, his expression turning soft from the sharp focus of the email he had read, with a hint of that so much younger looking Sherlock who didn’t understand John’s actions; eyes betraying a mix of confusion, an apology of not knowing and a demand of explanation.

John put the mobile carefully on the table, never loosing eye contact with Sherlock, who parted his lips when understanding eventually dawned on him. Putting his right hand onto Sherlock’s shoulder for balance, John braced his knees beside each leg of his friend, straddling him until their crotches were joined together. Sherlock marveled at John’s blushing, which was painting his cheeks in a soft pink shade but he remained still, waiting for John’s next step and savoring the tension between them.

His hand wandered from Sherlock’s shoulder, tracing slowly the protruding collar bone, brushing the palm upwards to the not concealed pale skin of his neck to rake his fingers through the beginning hairline at his nape and pulling him into a soft kiss.

Sherlock still remained passively, relishing the moment by closing his eyes while John was yet uncertain if his venture was welcomed or not. The kiss was chaste, barely a shy brushing of skin to skin as if he needed to ask for permission. John waited for any reaction of his friend at being daring to disturb him in the middle of the investigations of a case. But when he was about to withdraw his lips, already fidgeting to get off Sherlock’s lap, a subtle movement following John’s lips by Sherlock shattered every doubt.

Their tongues met somewhere in the middle, stroking tenderly at each touch, and Sherlock tilted his head slightly to grant better access for John who was taller than usual due to his elevated sitting position. Sherlock’s hands didn’t remain idly at the prospect of physical devotion, and they found their way upwards, stroking tentatively over John’s thighs, cupping his butt for a moment to let them trail the roundness up to the small of his back, the touch irritated by the fabric of John’s short-sleeved shirt.

The t-shirt was tight because it had to fit beneath his button-down shirt, and it was difficult for Sherlock’s hands to wind their way under the cloth without overstretching it or simply rolling it up John’s torso. With an annoyed groan deep in his throat, he growled impatiently, “Get this off.”

Allowing some inches between their bodies, John pulled at the hem to get the shirt over his head obligingly. Sherlock helped him with his left injured shoulder not to overstretch the arm. The shirt landed inelegantly on the coffee table behind John while his owner sought the closeness and warmth of his friend again, pressing himself harder at the man and resuming their kiss which spoke of more urgency than before.

Sherlock opened his legs a bit so John slid deeper into the vee of Sherlock’s lap, feeling his erection prodding against his own crotch. With a gasp they broke the kiss, realizing that John’s shoulder wouldn’t stop them for the first time in weeks.

While Sherlock dedicated himself to the crook of John’s shoulder, his friend freed busily every tiny button of Sherlock’s shirt, putting them through the holes and restraining himself not to rip that expensive purple shirt just off him. Meanwhile, Sherlock traced with timid fingers the exit wounds of John’s past unfortunate adventures while he caressed the entry wounds with soft kisses, tracing the scarred skin with his tongue. Withdrawing slightly to have a look at the sad evidence, he asked gently, “Do they hurt?”

It took John a moment to understand Sherlock’s question when he had opened the last button of the shirt. His dilated pupils went to his left shoulder, “No. The skin though just feels a bit numb, that’s all.”

Gliding his hands up to Sherlock’s shoulders John made the thin fabric slide down. Mimicking Sherlock’s concern for his bullet wounds, John’s hand stroked softly down his friend’s chest, feeling the planes covered with sparse hair and further down, feeling the scar of his own almost deadly encounter with a gun.

There was a moment of swaying between them, each of them waiting for the other to make the next move or retreat from what they had begun.

“This,” Sherlock splayed his hand over John’s on his torso, “This doesn’t hurt either.” He took the hand in his own, pulling it to his mouth for a kiss on his fingertips, and then he dragged his friend into a more fervent kiss. When he let go of John’s hand, his fingers fell to his jeans, opening the button and unzipping the fly. The soft brush of Sherlock’s knuckles at the sensitive erection beneath the rough fabric, had John’s breath hitch and he got aware of how uncomfortable his trousers were pressing at his groin.

“Christ,” he licked his lips, “I swear, Sherlock, if we don’t go to bed now, we’re going to make a mess with that expensive looking couch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to split the chapter which was to be meant as one originally but it would get too long. The second part is half-done, so I expect to post an update on Sunday for not too much suspense ;)


	28. Vulnerable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock relish the time in intimate togetherness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

Sherlock grinned widely, his eyes sparkling full of mischief. For all he cared he considered to hack the damn couch and rather use it as firewood than to get up but John had already made up his mind. He left the warmth of Sherlock’s lap, holding out a hand to compensate the loss of touch. Sherlock took it gladly, letting John take the lead upstairs to their guest room. At Emma’s room John stopped short to press an ear at the door, hoping the creaking stairs hadn’t woken her up. Sherlock’s hands couldn’t stay idly, and he fumbled with the waistband of John’s jeans. Patting away the tickling hands, John turned to Sherlock half earnest, half amused. He pressed his index finger in front of his mouth, gesturing a mute _Ssh!_

When there was no whimper to be heard, John dragged Sherlock further to the end of the carpeted hallway where to their right had been their guest room. The queen-sized bed with its dark gray bedclothes felt like heaven, John remembered of the night before, and he was longing for the soft sigh of the mattress. As soon as the door was closed, he grabbed Sherlock by his waist while his other hand cupped his neck to pull him down for another kiss. Their bodies clung to each other, desperately seeking the electrifying touches of hot skin to skin. While Sherlock trailed lazy fingers along his friend’s jaw, John splayed a hand onto the planes of Sherlock’s abdominal muscles which flexed involuntarily at the soft pressure. First Sherlock didn’t realize what John was up to but then the pressure increased, and he took a step backwards as he noticed that John was shoving him to the bed.

The hollows of Sherlock’s knees hit the edge of the bed, making him almost fall into the softness but John prevented him from doing so by hooking a deliberate finger into the waistband of his friend’s trousers. While John was looking down at the button and fly, Sherlock took a deep intake of breath of John’s crown, displaying honey and a few silver strands of short hair. With the touch and John’s mixed fragrance of shampoo and his very own scent, Sherlock started to feel dizzy. Yet he closed his eyes at the imminent exposure of his whole body. On their way upstairs they had already gotten rid of their shoes and socks. Thus, all, John had to do now was to strip off Sherlock’s black trousers and underpants in one swift move.

Both men stood there just for a few seconds to hold their panting breaths when Sherlock climbed smoothly like a cat backwards onto the mattress to lie down gracefully, waiting for his friend to follow. But John stood a little while longer marveling at the contrast of alabaster skin and gray bedclothes. He could see a slight flush from Sherlock’s face down to his chest where it merged with the pale skin into tiny pink freckles.

Eventually he climbed onto the bed, rolling on top of Sherlock who raised one eyebrow because John kept his jeans on, obviously having something different in his mind. John wouldn’t leave him to start his brain working coherently and recaptured his mouth, eyes rolling back at the explosion of sensation. Feeling Sherlock arching his back at their dancing tongues, his hard cock prodded at John’s own covered erection and a mutual groan escaped their throats.

Leaving Sherlock’s mouth, John kissed his way downwards, licking and sucking at the jaw to his ear and further down the sensitive skin of his exposed throat. The tiny moaning noises escaping Sherlock’s mouth vibrated under John’s lips as his nibbled tentatively at the Adam’s apple. John had decided to scan every inch of Sherlock’s body to file that like a treasure away. Something he would never share with anybody besides Sherlock, meaning that the detective who acted sometimes like a madman would be his.

Sherlock had cocked his legs, almost pinning John between them, seeking every possible touch he could get. But John slid further down his body, trapping Sherlock’s erection between John’s abdomen and his own body. A frustrated groan bubbled up his throat, as John sucked from his collar bone down to his tightened nipple. Sherlock was reduced to his very own instinct without being capable of thinking, wanting to move but John held him still in place, circling the erected bud with his tongue and teasing him with the scraping of his teeth.

“John, please…” He begged not knowing for what exactly he asked. His whole body shuddered, goose bumps were rippling his skin, making every hair stand upright. His inner core was melting and clenching at the same time as he sought desperately release in his uncoordinated movements.

Feeling John’s grin at his nipple, he let his tongue slide further down, dipping it briefly into the hollow of his navel. The swelling and falling of Sherlock’s ribcage made his body dance back and forth, and John knew that it wouldn’t last long for his friend coming undone.

Eventually he had reached his destination, protruding amidst sparse dark curls. John carefully took the base of the shaft in his hand, giving the tip of Sherlock’s cock a chaste kiss. It was an explosion of feelings. Sherlock threw his head back, gasping as if he would suffocate of the impulses vibrating through his whole body. Screwing up his eyes, he saw black stars in front of a white blankness. His left hand had been gripping the corner of the blanket tightly that even the white of his knuckles were visible, while the other arm was draped over his mouth, trying desperately to stifle his moans.

The salty taste of Sherlock’s skin was mingled with a drop of pre-cum which reminded John of a musky scent with an aphrodisiac effect. Tentatively he darted his tongue across the frenulum, and Sherlock’s hips shifted involuntarily.

Remembering the morning before John got shot, it came into his mind again how mesmerized he was to see Sherlock so vulnerable, so utterly open and full of emotions. John had gotten high to see the otherwise highly reserved detective in a warm glow; a picture only devoted to John. Unfortunately Sherlock had put his arm over his face now, so John couldn’t enjoy the sight now. But he would save that for later.

For better access John lifted one long leg of Sherlock to place it over his right shoulder. Slowly he slipped his lips around Sherlock’s cock, increasing the pressure between his tongue and the palate a bit, rubbing the tongue up and down the shaft. His friend’s breathing increased; the ribcage rising and falling in despair to suck in the necessary oxygen, then holding his breath, just to press his lunges free after a few seconds.

The hand which had gotten hold of the blanket, released the gray bedclothes and was placed on John’s crown hesitantly. Sherlock didn’t increase any pressure nor did he pluck at his friend’s soft hair to imply possessiveness. No. He was seeking a touch, a connection conveying confidence and reassurance. And John was just glad to give Sherlock the uttermost pleasure, his own needs deferred.

While his tongue darted across the glans, he felt short thrust into his mouth, indicating that Sherlock completely lost his control. He hissed, inhaling sharply, “I’m close, John…”

A nudge at John’s shoulder should tell him to let go but John seemed to disagree. His hands slid beneath Sherlock’s buttocks, adjusting his groin’s position and then trailing them just a bit upwards until his fingers met the small of his back. Like this John could hold his friend in a steady grip while he increased the pressure and the pace one more time, riding Sherlock directly towards his climax.

Just a moment later the deep rumble of his baritone voice bubbled in a shuddering breath up, his head jerking back into his neck while the climax washed over him. The sudden gush of semen surprised John at first but then he swallowed the sticky fluid, once again rubbing his tongue along the length of Sherlock’s cock to prolong his orgasm as long as he could.

After the tension left his body, his weight dipped Sherlock into the soft mattress, his muscles slackening but he was still panting heavily. The arm which had been pressed firmly over his mouth had fallen back over his head. Eventually John let go of his leg, crawling back to Sherlock’s side and trailing a lascivious finger along the flank of Sherlock’s hip. His friend was just too worn out than to recognize the ticklish sensation.

A kiss on his shoulder brought Sherlock back to reality, heavy eyelids fluttered open. John’s pupils were still dilated and his breathing implied that he was still aroused. Yet Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to focus on John’s pleasure yet. He felt simply too heavy to move; lax muscle’s unwilling to obey his orders.

“It’s okay.” John whispered as if he could read Sherlock’s muffled mind. He followed the rolling landscape of Sherlock’s ribcage, sensing a cooling sweat covering his skin. When he found his way over the deltoid muscle, John realized the firmness beneath the skin. Sherlock might be slender but people shouldn’t fall prey to the delusion he would be weak. His hand moved further downwards through sparse hair of his arm to interlace their fingers. “This was your first time, wasn’t it?” John had spoken the words faster than he had chewed them over, and he bit his tongue at his daring question.

A short flicker of a glance from the corner of Sherlock’s eyes implied that John’s assumption was right. Mycroft and even Sherlock himself had indicated it. Closing his eyes again, a smug smile curled around Sherlock’s lips. “As it was yours.”

John’s eyes lingered on the angular face of his friend with his sharp cheekbones. Of course he was right, and suddenly he realized that he hadn’t even given a second thought about it. It just felt natural. And he was sure he wanted to do much more things with Sherlock. It set his stomach aflutter, not only realizing that he wanted to do it now but he wanted to do it with him from the very beginning, from the first moment they had met in the lab of St. Bart’s. But there was that one moment at Angelo’s where Sherlock explained that he was married to his work and put every hope to an end. Yet things had changed. They had provoked the change at each other, like plus and minus of a magnet turning around until they fitted. Sherlock had seen. Only John had gotten stuck in his life not observing the development, unconsciously afraid of another rejection.

After a while Sherlock rolled onto his side, facing his friend. John could see how gradually the heaviness slipped off his half-open eyes, replaced by a wicked look which formed tiny crinkles around his eyes. “Your turn.”

The pit of his stomach jumped at Sherlock’s remark as if he was weightless for a second. Sometimes it was beyond John’s understanding how Sherlock could move so fast while being elegant; his whole body coordinated endless legs, arms and his head in one swift move and before John knew what was happening, he was straddled by Sherlock.

“You’re still overdressed.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose from above, hooking one finger behind the waistband of John’s boxer beneath the jeans, tugging slightly. At the gentle reproach John thrust his hips upwards with Sherlock balancing his weight on his knees for the movement. John held the position his knees bent and his feet braced firmly on the mattress, so Sherlock could slide the jeans along with the boxer down John’s legs.

Taking his time Sherlock looked his friend up and down, not because he considered this to be a wicked game but to memorize each inch of skin. That made Sherlock’s nature up, John knew, yet he fidgeted slightly under the scrutinizing eyes, a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

Suddenly Sherlock leaned a bit forward to reach for the drawer of his bedside table. In doing so their cocks brushed against each other, sending electrifying impulses down John’s spine. “Christ!” He gasped, while Sherlock retrieved a small plastic bottle and a pack of condoms.

Bending down he gave a tender kiss to John, his free hand brushing softly down his chest and stomach. He could feel tensing strong muscles beneath soft flesh at the touch, a remnant of his army times. Sherlock’s hand moved further down, and a sharp intake of breath caught in John’s throat implied that he had arrived at his destination. Curling his fingers around the rigid shaft, he stroked gently down.

Leaving John’s lips he sat on his thighs back again. He ripped the foil apart and unrolled the condom down the length of John’s shaft. Hissing his breath, John bit his bottom lip at the effort not to thrust involuntarily up. A clicking noise broke through his self-restraint, and he watched Sherlock applying lubricant on his fingers to reach behind himself. John already had marveled at Sherlock’s body but lying beneath John, he had remained rather passively while now John could see every muscle, every sinew alive, moving beneath pale skin. Somehow it remembered him of his anatomy lessons during his studies, and a smirk crossed his face. Sherlock squeezed another drop of lubricant off the bottle and curled a slick palm down John’s length, then up again to spread the rest on the head.

“You sure this is your first time?” John asked half-heartedly with a mischievous grin on his lips.

A dark glower with a sparkle of a playful smirk met John’s steel blue pools, “I’m not an idiot.” He murmured, adjusting his position over John’s lap. “Besides,” he lowered himself slowly, meeting the head of John’s cock, “This is the second time, if I counted rightly.” Pushing down, John snatched a sharp breath. Forgotten was the tease, and his mind went utterly blank at the tight sensation around his length.

Sherlock got hold of John’s bent knees to steady himself while he pressed farther down, arching his back slightly to coax the tension from his body until he finally sat on John’s hips. Sherlock’s lips were slightly parted, sucking each string of oxygen into his lunges. After a moment’s alignment he started to rock a little, shifting his weight back and forth, accustoming himself to the new feeling.

John, too, grew gradually accustomed to the impulses which pooled in his crotch. He spread his hands on Sherlock’s thighs to find his balance again. Sliding his palms along the length of Sherlock’s legs, his hands roamed outside to the roundness of Sherlock’s buttocks, cupping them for support.

At John’s questioning look, Sherlock nodded subtly, and John started to thrust carefully up in short stabs. Goose bumps rippled Sherlock’s whole body along, and a groan born deep in his throat escaped his mouth. Encouraged by Sherlock’s involuntary consent, John dipped his fingers tighter into his buttocks adjusting Sherlock’s position for longer, deeper thrusts.

Suddenly Sherlock hitched his breath, eyes wide, and one hand shot forward to brace himself on John’s base of the belly. “ _Oh_.” He gasped at the overwhelming strings of sensation flooding through his body.

John was first concerned, afraid he had hurt his friend, but then he saw the panting man before him, chest heaving with ragged breaths, shivering with pleasure. “I think we found your soft spot.” He grinned, meaning his nudges at Sherlock’s prostrate.

Gasping breaths and tiny moans broke the silence of the room at their newly found rhythm. John’s hand had wandered from Sherlock’s butt to his hips, one hand pressed against his abdomen, marveling at the beauty of tight muscles moving beneath alabaster skin.

Sherlock, who hadn’t yet the opportunity to become acquainted with John’s body by touch, moved now his hand up over the ridges of his heaving ribcage, to the planes of his chest, feeling a strong heart hammering rapidly beneath. But he wanted more, only their position restrained them to feel their body’s warmth and let their hands roam further.

A shiver in Sherlock’s legs let John know that he was close but somehow they lost their rhythm, and he saw the shiver crawl up to Sherlock torso. It was too much, John observed; too much of sensation that he was simply overwhelmed, not to mention that he already had come once not all that long ago. Like this they couldn’t finish what they had begun.

“Come here.” John breathed, tugging gently at Sherlock’s shoulders. Obliging, Sherlock cradled close to John’s chest. “Let’s turn over.” And Sherlock nodded.

Bracing his left foot firmly on the mattress to push, John rolled them over his right shoulder, that they found themselves in changed positions. Finally Sherlock got the closeness he sought before, and he smiled fondly at John, capturing his lips for a kiss.

John braced his hands beside Sherlock’s shoulders, grabbing a nearby pillow. “Lift your butt.” For a better angle he put the pillow beneath Sherlock’s small of the back. Like this John could prop up on his elbows and pamper his exhausted friend with kisses and nibbles along his jaw and throat.

Sherlock had tucked his legs up, his heels digging into John’s firm arse. His arm which he had used before to muffle his sounds was back in position over his face. John took his friend’s hand, gave it a quick kiss to pin it under his own hand beside Sherlock’s head. “Let me hear you.” He husked into his ear, nibbling at the lobe and kissing the sensitive spot beneath which brought him an involuntary arch of Sherlock’s hips combined with a deep moan.

Putting their rhythm to a slower move, John thrust lasciviously, watching Sherlock’s face intently, seeking the pleasure and the vulnerability in his friend. It seemed to be a catalyst for his own pleasure, as he noticed. No-one had ever seen Sherlock like this, utterly detached from the world whereas the man could barely contain himself from anything, be it a case, the science or deductions. He was always agitated, never letting go of the various chains of thought in his mind. Yet now, he was only focused on John.

Again John perceived the subtle tremble in Sherlock’s body. Increasing the pace, John knew that this time Sherlock needn’t to concentrate on his own body’s movement to ride the wave of pleasure. His cock was trapped between their bellies. The additional friction went one step further, and Sherlock threw his head in his neck, his hand seeking a place to hold on as if he would fall into a deep abyss, bruising John’s upper arm in doing so. Then the climax chased his body down, pooling from his inner core to his spine, electrical flushes tensing up his muscles to succumb to an all captivating shudder. A groan betrayed by his strong baritone voice added the auditory appreciation of his orgasm, while he arched his back into John. It didn’t last for John to follow Sherlock over the edge. A clenching muscle around John’s cock increased the tight friction.

“Fuck!” He pressed the word through gritted teeth as his own climax washed over him, not able to find a better word than a curse. Burying his face into the crook between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, he bowed his back until the shivers slowly ebbed away.

They just remained like this for a while, feeling each other’s ragged breath, their bellies meeting when they bumped against each other with every new heaving. The sticky fluid between them began to dry slowly. But in the end, John’s own muscles yielded under his own weight when drowsiness hit him. Carefully he rolled off Sherlock.

After their heart rate turned back to normal, they cuddled closely, looking through sleepy eyes, eyelids rather dropping than blinking. A smirk played around Sherlock’s lips. “You were right. We would have made a mess with that ridiculous couch.”


	29. Parenthood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After some beautiful days the case has another unexpected turn once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

Sleep always had been something which Sherlock could avoid easily. Over the years he had reduced it to three or four hours a night; sometimes when he was on cases he even skipped sleep completely. Sleeping just hadn’t offered him comfort, so he had declared it as a waste of time. Only if he was absolutely exhausted he would oblige his bodily needs. Those nights he had rather a blackout than sleep. There were never dreams, just darkness engulfing his mind. He had accepted it but since he had been shot, it left a bitter aftertaste which had turned into something frightening of never wake up again.

Sherlock knew that it must be the same feeling for John. His posttraumatic stress disorder had almost ebbed away, decreased to a subtle level which only haunted him in his dreams from time to time. He had stopped to look at his Sig as if it were a tool to oblivion. Yet since both of them had sought out the warmth of each other at night they finally succumbed to peaceful sleep in their entwined bodies. Sherlock still didn’t need as much sleep as John but for his friend’s sake he stayed in bed, reading books or sorting memories in his mind palace. He had never assumed to make such compromises for anyone.

After their last night, Sherlock experienced for the first time in his life an exhausted yet utterly relaxing sleep without any darkness blurring his vision. Blinking away the bleary images in the morning, he craved after the missing warmth beside him. A sound like raindrops drumming at the windows reached his ears, while his hand was seeking John but only found cold emptiness. Slowly reality’s awareness crawled back into his consciousness; the rain was the shower in the bathroom which abutted at their guest room. It was rare that he needed some time to find his mind in full working mode again. A look at the alarm clock showed him that it was almost seven o’clock, and he groaned, digging his head into a pillow. Of course John needed to get up early because of the second part of the conference.

Stretching his body luxuriously, he shooed the numbness off his limbs and swung reluctantly his slightly still uncoordinated legs over the edge of the bed. He combed his right hand through the matted mop of curls and padded over wooden parquet to the bathroom which door stood wide open; an invitation as Sherlock recognized with a smile.

He found John under the shower, the stall framed with glass, letting Sherlock lean at the door and marveling at John. Beside his average height he had a solid frame; firm muscles moving beneath slightly tanned skin while streaks of water ran down the curves of his body. Although John hid the pain in his shoulder last night, Sherlock now observed that he had overstrained it; he was barely able to lift his arm. Guilt washed over him that he hadn’t been considerate enough to observe it – their last position wasn’t the best for John’s shoulder because he had needed to put his whole weight on his arms.

“Will you just look or do you want to join me?” John looked over his shoulder invitingly. And as oblivious as John was sometimes in regard to clues on cases, he was pretty much capable of reading Sherlock’s mind, and he added pointedly, “My shoulder’s fine. It’s just a little sore. No wonder, I haven’t used my arm for quite a while.”

With this he turned his head again, continuing to lather his belly while Sherlock took just a moment longer to dispel his guilt and let his eyes wander further down John’s back, remembering how he had dug his heels into that sturdy buttocks. Blushing at the memory, he felt his cock coming to live again.

A wicked grin displayed his plan while he stepped closer to the water speckled stall. Thin white flakes still lingered at the hair down his navel, as well as on the skin of his belly; a vague hint of his pleasure last night. Opening the glass door, he stepped under the gush of warm water, immediately soaking his dark curls. He let his body glide along John’s frame, his half-hardness nudging his friend’s base of the belly. John reached up to put unruly curls out of Sherlock’s eyes, and pulled him down for a longing kiss. Soaped hands slid up Sherlock’s arms and rested on his biceps, while Sherlock’s hands roamed busily down to the object of his prior attention, grabbing John’s buttocks to pull him close for more friction.

A shared moan escaped both of them, panting into each other’s mouths at the renewed explosion of sensation. It wasn’t only their moans mingled with the splattering sounds of the shower which broke the silence of the bathroom but also a high-pitched cry of Emma. Their eyes flew open as the kiss broke and they recognized that their daughter had just woken up.

_Parenthood_. And Sherlock groaned at the sudden loss of John against him. Just their heads stayed glued together at their brows, a giggle tickling at each other’s lips.

“I guess that’s it,” John smiled shyly, “We’ve been lucky. It was at least the first time that she had slept all through the night.”

Sherlock hummed an agreement, and John stepped out of the shower, grabbing a nearby towel to rub the resistant drops off his body. Then he put his terry robe on, shooting a last longing look at Sherlock who had just started to lather his own body. _Dammit!_

Despite her first warning cry of the morning, Emma was in excellent mood, and John went with practiced hands through their morning routine. His shoulder was indeed a bit sore, and he caught himself favoring his healthy shoulder. Soon this would be a thing of the past; he had his first physiotherapy appointment the next day, after his work at the surgery. He rolled the shoulder carefully while he gave Emma her bottle.

“Shouldn’t she start with real food gradually from now on?” Sherlock appeared in the kitchen in his blue dressing gown and a white towel, rubbing his dripping curls. “She’s over half a year old now.”

John looked down at his daughter who sucked greedily at the bottle. “Hmm… She just seems to be content with the formula.” He contemplated while Sherlock put the towel on the table, running his fingers through damp hair. Leaning at the kitchen unit, he grabbed his prepared mug of tea and sipped deliberately. “But maybe you’re right.” John added after a while, “We could give it try.” And then a teasing smile played at his lips, “You could cook for her.”

“No.” Sherlock’s scandalized reply made his nose wrinkle. “I don’t even cook for you.”

“Sad as it is.” John sighed, stifling a laugh at the absurdity of Sherlock cooking. Yet he was curious, “Can you even cook? Or did you delete such triteness?”

Rolling his mug between his palms, his friend furrowed his brows, “Of course I can cook. At least the basics. But what was the significance of cooking when being alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore, Sherlock.” John pointed the fact out, his heart skipping one beat at the sad statement.

Absent-mindedly he looked at the receding tea in his mug, “True,” a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

And there it was again; a moment in which Sherlock opened all his being for John, all his emotions. By now, he knew his friend from the vulnerable tension to the outraged fury, and he loved all the facets. Bit by bit he would learn more about Sherlock, and his feelings would just deepen.

Reluctantly John dragged himself to the conference again, and enjoyed the idea of being picked up by Sherlock and Emma in the afternoon. He hadn’t seen much of Brighton after all, but he didn’t care. For all he cared he would miss the cocoon of the cottage far away from London and Farnsworth’s reach. For the last forty eight hours he hadn’t spared any thought about that bloody case which was awaiting them again in the cobweb of London’s street.

“Did Mycroft double the guards?” John asked incredulously when they arrived at home but Sherlock just shrugged, dropping the subject.

The next morning they brought Emma to Mrs. Carlyle, a warm woman who instantly had a good rapport with their daughter. John had expected crying and clinging to his arm but Emma just smiled and giggled in the older woman’s arm.

When they had left the flat of the nanny, Sherlock wrinkled his nose in mocking disgust, “She’s such a traitor.” Even though it was meant as a joke, there was an element of truth hiding in Sherlock’s voice but John snorted a laugh nonetheless.

“I feel the same,” he declared nodding an exuberant agreement which was meant not to be taken too seriously. “I need to go now.” Standing on tiptoes he snatched a kiss. This was going to be a long day with his work and the physiotherapy afterwards. That’s why Sherlock had decided to go to the morgue doing some experiment with a body Molly would most certainly provide. With the case stuck because Farnsworth hadn’t carried out any further action, he would just be bored alone in the flat.

The day dragged on for what felt like eternity. Sherlock, who had always been able to black any disturbance out, had now problems focusing on the corpse in front of him because his thoughts crawled involuntarily back to John. He had never presumed that physical attention would be a catalyst for a relationship. But John’s gentle approach made one place in his mind palace collapse like a house of cards. It was that same place Mycroft inculcated in Sherlock since he was a child. He knew that Mycroft hadn’t done it out of malice but to protect his little brother. _Caring is not an advantage_.

“How inconvenient,” a remnant of the haughty Sherlock mumbled to the corpse, of not being able to focus because he craved for John’s fingers fluttering over his body. Last night Sherlock had insisted only to cuddle in bed because he had observed how John was favoring his right shoulder while the other one clearly hurt him. John had protested, of course, but Sherlock could be quite stubborn when he had made up his mind. He had decided for a massage instead but in the end that wasn’t one of his most brilliant ideas, leaving them more frustrated than sated. A rolling roar of annoyance in regard to his incapability filled the room, and made Molly jump at the desk. But before she could ask what had caused Sherlock’s outburst, he had already left the morgue.

When he arrived at 221B in the afternoon, John was still at the physiotherapy. Pacing the flat back and forth, Sherlock got that inner restlessness which pooled in his stomach an angry emptiness. _Bored_. Without Emma, John or preferably a case in which they were not stuck, he didn’t find the peace of being still and focusing. Opening his laptop, he checked his emails replying some by solving cases just from reading the client’s emails. _Dull!_

Fortunately John came back after an hour, and everything went peacefully quiet again, the rage of storm stilled in his chest when those gentle hands rested on his shoulders, looking curiously at the screen. “Solved some cases?”

“Quite a few.” Sherlock boasted, and John smiled because he had predicted this answer. He planted a kiss on the mop of his curls, and then went for the kitchen to prepare tea.

“Woohoo!” Two short raps announced Mrs. Hudson. “Is your doorbell still in the fridge?”

“Where else should it be?” Sherlock grimaced very well aware of the landlady’s huff.

“You’ve got a client. Shall I bring him up?” Mrs. Hudson searched for John’s eyes being too much annoyed by the consulting detective’s impertinent question.

“Yes!” The answer came promptly, and Sherlock got up, brushing his jacket. A case would cheer his mood up. _Maybe I should reintegrate the doorbell where it belongs to_. He mused, furling his brows.

Mrs. Hudson went downstairs again to instruct their potential client just to go upstairs and enter the flat. Sherlock was placing himself in front of the chimney while John brought their mugs to the small table beside his armchair.

“Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” A voice with a thick Japanese accent made them look at the door in disbelief.

The man with distinctive Asian features smiled at them but it didn’t reach his eyes. Instead he looked rather like a predator. He wasn’t tall, slender but his movement betrayed a solid frame very well able to defend himself if need be, or pounce on his prey which was more likely than not. He wore casual clothes most probably not to attract any attention by their guards on the street; black jeans with sneakers and a blue t-shirt.

John’s intermittent tremor in his left hand made his hand flex involuntarily. He sniffed, “That’s the bodyguard, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

But Sherlock had pressed his lips to a thin line, swallowing hard at the dangerous intruder, “No,” his baritone voice sounded suddenly hoarse, “That’s not the bodyguard. That’s Takuya Koizumi himself.”

The awareness of the detective made the eyes of the Japanese man sparkle as if this was a challenge for him. “Your older brother has quite the resources.” He declared in an odd sing-song.

“I don’t understand,” John furrowed his brows, looking at Sherlock questioningly, “Takuya Koizumi’s supposed to be in prison.”

“Now, isn’t that funny.” The man clapped the hands gleefully together, a menacing sound which made Sherlock blink. “But how can I be here whereas I’m locked away in Japan?” The question was addressed to Sherlock.

“Because your bodyguard’s in prison. You’re having a doppelganger.” Sherlock lifted his chin defiantly, while John gaped at him open-mouthed.

Baring his teeth, Koizumi snarled, “Exactly.”

Slowly but surely, understanding crept up John’s spine, making his skin ripple and raising his hackles. Suddenly he longed for his Sig which was once again locked away in a drawer in their bedroom. For a second he indeed considered retrieving it as quick as he could, ignoring the man in the middle of their living room. But then he would need to leave Sherlock alone with him, and that was something he couldn’t bear in his mind. By now he knew that his friend wasn’t as helpless as it sometimes seemed. Behind Sherlock leaned the chimney’s poker at the mantle. John scanned the man for any possible weapon, gun, knife, something. But along the slender frame he couldn’t detect any such thing. Besides he was outnumbered. Better not to even that out and leave Sherlock alone with him, his thoughts swirling not quite getting why Koizumi was here.

“Surely, you’re here for a reason.” Sherlock declared matter-of-factly, but he couldn’t delude John. Sherlock’s composure and strained voice betrayed the imminent danger he saw in that man.

“Of course.” Koizumi shrugged, his smug smile vanishing in the same second. “You’ve got something that belongs to me.”

“The memory stick.” John breathed almost soundlessly.

All the focus which lit on Sherlock faded suddenly when Koizumi set his eyes upon John, narrowing them. He hadn’t presumed that the doctor would be an equivalent for the detective. It was as if he realized his mistake, and paid more attention to the shorter but stronger man now.

“It’s not here,” lied Sherlock, feeling the discomfort of Koizumi’s scrutinizing look at John, a small wave of fear pooling in the pit of his stomach. “We don’t have it anymore.”

Sharp black eyes dragged from John to Sherlock, pinning him with narrowed eyes. Slowly he drew closer to the detective with deliberate steps, nostrils flaring at his audacity. “Then I’ve got something that belongs to you.” He snarled.

First Sherlock didn’t understand what Koizumi could have meant but then a numbing dizziness engulfed his mind when understanding dawned on him, his ears ringing in alarm and his eyes developing a tunnel vision. “Emma?”

From the corner of his eyes he could see John’s head snapping in his direction, his face stupefied with horror. Takuya Koizumi drew again closer to Sherlock step by step until he had planted himself in front of the tall detective. “Just to get this straight,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “I’m a businessman, and I won’t let you interfere with my business anymore, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was hoarse as a lump in his throat blocked the way of intelligible articulation. He was clearly in shock not able to produce a coherent thought. Emma was abducted, and Koizumi was threatening Sherlock not only by words but also by circling him, and John felt useless, not able to move. Fear paralyzed him whereas he wanted to pounce on the man and press his strong hands onto his throat until he heard that sickening snap of the trachea, gasping until life was seeping away from his body. But he just couldn’t as long as they didn’t know if it was an idle threat.

Sherlock didn’t respond to John’s question. Tiny beads of sweat appeared at his forehead, thinking hard about a way out. Yet the door to his mind palace was blocked once again, only this time by a dark figure pressing the muzzle of a gun at Emma’s temple.

“If you want your little baby girl back,” Koizumi said in deadly earnest, “You’ll bring the memory stick to the old factory by eight o ‘clock.” With this he turned around for the door, shooting John one last threatening look, “And don’t underestimate me, gentlemen.” It was a warning which meant that he wouldn’t even stop to hurt a baby.


	30. Emma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet Koizumi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

“Sherlock?” John’s worried voice echoed in his mind but he wasn’t able to respond. What could he do now? John expected some elaborate plan but he hadn’t any. The vision in the corner of his eyes went blurry, and a shiver made his body tremble at his own helplessness.

A sudden jolt dragged him back to their living room. John had grabbed his shoulder, jerking hard to get the needed attention. “Why didn’t you just hand that bloody memory stick over?” Although it was a whisper, Sherlock perceived the angry undertone of his friend’s hiss.

He looked at John incredulously, narrowing his eyes at his friend’s failure to observation, “Because it was already too late.” He explained breathlessly. “There was no guarantee that he would give her back. She wasn’t with him. But if we meet him for an exchange we’ll make her come with us.”

John felt his stomach drop and convulse, nausea filling his throat. His sudden cold hands let go of Sherlock’s shoulder as he realized that his friend was right. His eyes were wide with concern, not able to focus on anything. Barely able to breathe, he sucked the oxygen violently in his lunges, forcing his brain to work. But his mind always snapped back to his little daughter, a sweet babbling, squeaking, helpless baby in the hands of a murderous psychopath. What would he do if she cried? Would he let her be, or lock her into a dark room? Would he let her feel his anger?

He tumbled back against the wall beside the chimney, his legs yielding at the heavy burden as he slumped down with a sob, desperately needing fresh air. He had always considered himself being a tough man; he lost friends and comrades in battle, he once lost Sherlock and was betrayed by his wife. He definitely couldn’t bear to lose his daughter, too.

He had braced his elbows on his bent knees, his head bowed forward while his hands raked through his hair in despair, gripping fistful strands and slightly plucking at them; some physical pain which prevented him of drifting apart and loose every sense of reality.

Noticing that his friend was hyperventilating, Sherlock hunkered down and curled his sweating palms around John’s cold hands. His eyes were filled with tears, his lips pursed as if he wanted to prevent himself of making any incoherent sounds. His whole body was flooded with futile emotions – fear, fury, love, despair; it threatened to rip him to pieces. He cursed under his breath. In this situation John needed the high-functioning sociopath, cool and far-seeing, not a human wreck who could barely contain his feelings.

“He hasn’t said how.” Sherlock’s otherwise strong baritone voice was thick with fear, “He hasn’t said how we would have her back.” His analytical mind had gone through the conversation again and had stopped at that particular part. He didn’t want to worry John any further but it was this part which psyched him out. A shudder rippled his skin, and then another and another, until he shivered so badly that he tumbled over into John’s arms. They held each other for a while, waiting for the horror to fade away. The cloudy fog which had taken hold of their minds slowly ebbed at their reciprocal comfort.

“Please tell me that we have a plan.” John cleared his voice but wasn’t able to lift it to merely a whisper.

Sherlock was still staring into an unfocused emptiness but a shift in his pale blue eyes showed that he was thinking about John’s question. “We need to check on Mrs. Carlyle first.” Slowly life crept back into his mind. This was the first step, a move forward. They needed to keep moving now, to not fall into a lethargy which could paralyze them because that would be their deaths, as well as Emma’s.

Nodding his agreement, John disentangled his arms from Sherlock and locked his eyes with him, “I’m going to kill that bastard.” Firm hands pushed John up from the floor. “He wants that stick back at any cost, and we do know too much.” He held his hand for Sherlock to pull him up, and then headed for the bedroom to finally retrieve his Sig, cold metal fitting perfectly in his hand, his index finger itching for the trigger. But for now he placed it behind the waistband of his blue jeans, hidden by his gray cardigan.

“Maybe we should inform Mycroft?” When John returned to the living room, he saw how Sherlock let the memory stick glide into his trouser pocket.

Sherlock seemed to consider John’s idea a second but declined it eventually by waving a dismissive hand, “Koizumi knew about my brother. His connection with Farnsworth ensures him sensitive information from supreme sources. If we involve Mycroft, he’ll know it.” Heading downstairs, he shrugged into his jacket, “No. We do this alone. I don’t want any intervention which could endanger Emma.”

Even though Mrs. Carlyle’s home wasn’t far away Sherlock waved a taxi nonetheless. There was no time to be wasted. While their short drive, John asked slightly reproachfully, “Why have you withheld information from me?” And then he pursed his lips, adding in a whisper, “I thought we agreed on honesty, especially now.”

Sherlock’s eyes dropped to his folded hands in his lap. “Mycroft visited me in Brighton on Saturday. Since then I knew about Koizumi.” He dragged his eyes to John, seeking forgiveness, “I just didn’t want to worry you.”

Their eyes stayed locked for just a little longer, as if John hadn’t understood the full extent of Sherlock’s meaning. “That’s why the doubled security guards?” John remembered his remark of the day before when Sherlock hadn’t replied. A new wave of anger flushed his stomach. Although they were under the scrutiny of the British government Koizumi had been able to abduct his daughter before their very eyes. His anger turned to Mycroft and his failing security measures but deep inside he knew that Sherlock’s older brother wasn’t the one to be blamed. “Anything else?” He asked eventually through clenched teeth.

Sherlock arched his brows questioningly.

“Anything else you withheld from me?”

Sherlock’s lips formed a silent _Oh_ , and remembered the content of Mycroft’s email. “Well…” He cleared his voice, “Koizumi and Farnsworth seems to know each other quite longer than anticipated. They had already met when Farnsworth was ambassador in Japan, and Takuya Koizumi’s father had been still alive. There’s no real evidence but it’s believed that Koizumi also killed his father. Obviously Farnsworth was interested in business with the yakuza, buying drugs and smuggling them to the UK for his own pharmaceutical company. It was a cheap way to make a lot of money. But the father declined because the shipping way had been too long, and the risk of a money-losing business was far too great. Yet Takuya Koizumi saw the potential, and he planned the murder of his father together with Farnsworth. As we very well know he had succeeded, and all he needed to cope with was his older brother in the end. You know the rest.”

They came to a halt and John paid the cabbie. Before entering the front door of Mrs. Carlyle’s house, Sherlock tugged at the sleeve of John’s cardigan, “There’s a difference between Farnsworth and Koizumi,” he explained, “While Farnsworth would never get his own hands dirty, Koizumi wouldn’t restrain from it. Farnsworth has way too much to lose but Koizumi isn’t afraid of it. How would he?” Sherlock asked rhetorically, “He’s already in prison.”

John nodded slowly at Sherlock’s careful choice of words. It was a fair warning to take the murderer by his word and not to underestimate him; not to let his emotions rule his mind while opposing him. Turning to the front door they noticed that it was left ajar. Retrieving his Sig from his waistband, John took the lead, carefully pushing the door open. Mrs. Carlyle’s flat was on the same floor like Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Straining their ears they tried to listen to any noise that could betray a still lingering intruder in the house. But it was stone silent which meant that probably no-one would attack them. At the same time John also perceived the missing baby noises implying that Koizumi hadn’t made an idle threat. John just hoped that Mrs. Carlyle wasn’t dead.

He scanned every room for a hidden intruder but in the end they found only the nanny on the kitchen floor. She was slightly bleeding at the back of her head, the sticky fluid already crusting over the thin graying hair. When every danger was put aside, John knelt down beside her, checking her vitals, “Mrs. Carlyle?” He spoke softly because she would probably be concussed. A gentle hand squeezed at her shoulder, getting her out of blankness.

A groan from her throat bubbled up, and she tried to push herself up onto her hands, blinking erratically at the dizziness. “Mrs. Carlyle.” This time Sherlock’s baritone rumbled deep in his throat, and her eyes widened as consciousness crept back to her mind, a sob escaping her mouth while she clutched a hand over her lips.

“There was a young woman…” She shook her head, trying to sort her thoughts. “Half-long brown hair with glasses…” She looked appalled at John. “She said she was instructed to pick Emma up but I insisted to call you first for confirmation, and then…” A trembling hand fluttered over the wound on her head, wincing at the pain, “She had a pistol and then hit me with the grip.” Her eyes widened even more, terrified of her next word, “Emma?”

John had his lips pressed to a thin line. He wouldn’t fill the older woman in but produced his mobile from his pocket.

“What’re you doing?” Sherlock interrupted, aware about their agreement of informing no one about the abduction.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock. She needs an ambulance. She has a concussion, her vision’s blurred and her pupils don’t react properly.” Sherlock nodded reluctantly at the truth of John’s words.

While John made the call, Sherlock helped the nanny up onto a chair. He sought eye contact, hoping the older woman would understand what he was about to say, “I need you to lie to the paramedics about your wound.” Mrs. Carlyle eyes went dark as she scowled in incomprehension. “Emma was abducted, and we know who did it. If the police will be informed, we’ll never see her again.” He needed to focus on his voice to stay steady but the baritone was barely a shadow of his full forte. The nanny had liked John from the beginning, a heart-warming man. Yet she didn’t understand why a man like the doctor clung to the cold detective. But now in the face of a naked truth she realized that she judged the book by its cover, and nodded subtly her agreement. Sherlock swallowed and whispered, “Thank you.”

They waited for the paramedics who arrived eight minutes later, and then departed the scene. “And now?” asked John helplessly, his eyes riveting on the blue sky with hints of pink and purple betraying the approaching evening hours.

“Now we’re heading for the factory. As long as we’re the first there, we’re having home-turf advantage by choosing a good place for you to shoot that bastard without putting Emma in danger.” The dark look in Sherlock’s eyes made John shudder, receiving an impression how it must have been when his friend had been chasing the assassin after he had shot John.

Returning to the abandoned factory once again wasn’t something Sherlock had been looking forward to. This was the place where John had been shot, and all the fear crept up his spine, a lump appearing in his throat when the vivid images played with his mind. Now Emma was abducted, and the old factory would be again the center of a battle.

According to Mrs. Carlyle, Koizumi hadn’t worked alone. Probably Farnsworth had lent him one of his hired killers. Would he come alone then? The factory was tinged in shadowy gray. The dirt crusted windows were barely letting the setting sun break through. What would be a good strategy? Eyeing the old conveyor belts, Sherlock noticed that the flawed rubber mats were leading to a machine, the small square entrance obscured by thick transparent rubber stripes, like baggage conveyor belts at an airport.

Checking the machine of its sturdiness, Sherlock gave it a jerk. “Do you think you could hide in there?”

John watched into the angular metal box, weighing Sherlock’s question. “I’m not that small.” He chaffed with a smile, immediately feeling guilty at the tease when he remembered why they were here. He hopped onto the conveyor belt and crawled into the darkness of the box. Inside he hunkered down, pinning his back flat against the rusty frame. Like this he was almost invisible from outside but he could see all what was going on alongside the conveyor belt. “I think that might work.” He said, taking the Sig in his dominant hand, checking the ammunition one last time.

Now all they needed to do was waiting. It was half past seven but John stayed in the metal box as a precaution while Sherlock leant at the conveyor belt bracing his weight with his hands. There was a long silence between them, while they strained their ears for any hint at the arrival of Koizumi. “John?” Sherlock spoke softly.

“Hmm?”

“I know you want to kill Koizumi.” A derogatory snort of laugh came from the box. “We do need him alive.” Sherlock plainly expounded.

“Why?” John’s tone was clipped.

“Because he’s our only connection to Farnsworth beside Jenkins.”

“And what exactly make you think that he would talk about his business partner in court?” John’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Ignoring the punctuated skit, Sherlock shrugged, “Probably he wouldn’t. But we’re running out of options to get to Farnsworth.”

John didn’t say anymore but it wasn’t a silent agreement. If Koizumi would threaten Emma or Sherlock, he would be dead. _Sod that bastard Farnsworth!_ They would find another way.

Suddenly Sherlock shifted his weight, whispering, “Someone’s coming.”

Every muscle in John’s body tensed. He got up from his sitting position, and planted his back again flat against the frame, hunkering, so he could dart forward if need be. His finger depressed the trigger safety and then curled firmly around the trigger.

“Mr. Holmes.” Koizumi greeted Sherlock exuberantly. He was walking confidently with outstretched arms towards the detective. “Where’s Dr. Watson?” He feigned disappointment at the missing partner of Sherlock.

Several yards behind Koizumi walked a young woman with half-long brown hair and stylish angular glasses, just like Mrs. Carlyle had described her. Cold brown eyes fixed Sherlock, and he could see that she wasn’t only wearing a gun but also Emma. They had put the little girl in a wicker basket stuffed with a blanket. Seemingly their daughter was unharmed and due to the swaying basket she was sleeping. Both, Sherlock and John took a load off their minds.

“He’s collapsed.” Sherlock lied easily, hoping that Koizumi would believe it. Putting his hands in the trouser pockets, he added, “He’s in hospital – St. Bart’s – you can call for confirmation.” While they had waited, Sherlock had texted Molly instructions that if someone asked for John at the information desk she would need to take over the call and confirm his stay. Good Molly! She always helped and didn’t ask further questions.

Squinting at the detective, Koizumi drew closer. Sherlock observed that he didn’t like the absence of John but he couldn’t help it right now, so he waved a dismissive hand, “No problem!” He spoke with his thick accent, rolling the consonants in odd syllables. Reaching out his hand, he raised one eyebrow, demanding the memory stick.

Sherlock slowly retrieved his hand along with the stick. Hesitantly he handed it over to Koizumi. He knew that bargaining Emma’s handover would only endanger all their lives. The woman behind Koizumi had put the basket down, her hand resting at the grip of her Glock as if she wanted to make clear for Sherlock to not make the wrong decision.

Weighing the stick in his hand, Koizumi took a closer look at the little plastic. “My older brother was always so sentimental.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “It seemed he couldn’t throw away his old life. Yet this old life had caught up with him, and cost him his new life.” He let the stick run through his fingers until it fell to the dusty ground. “He was such an idiot!” With this he stepped firmly onto the stick, crushing it beneath his sole.

Sherlock went white as he saw like the last piece of evidence was destroyed with such bitter hatred. But Koizumi just stood there, his gaze lit on the broken stick. After a while, Sherlock shifted his weight involuntarily from one leg to the other, waiting for the next step. But Koizumi didn’t react. Only the woman behind him had moved a bit, retrieving the gun from her belt holster. She stared at Sherlock with deadly eyes.

Inside the metal box, John knew that he needed to take first that woman down. As it seemed Koizumi wasn’t armed. _Bloody mistake!_ John thought sourly.

“The girl now, please?” Sherlock wanted to state a fact, a bargain they had negotiated but Koizumi’s unyielding eyes snapped up, looking furiously at Sherlock. John didn’t like that look; it had shifted from good-natured to an utterly grimace of rage. Rage because Sherlock had interrupted his musings.

“She’s quite a pressure point.” Koizumi declared matter-of-factly, looking at the little baby snuggled into a white blanket.

Sherlock’s sharp expression faltered, “But you promised to let her go.”

“Why would I let witnesses go?” He shrugged, and Sherlock remembered John’s musings from before. Indeed John and Sherlock had become a liability for Koizumi. Why would he indeed let them go? In the corner of his eyes he observed the woman drawing her gun, and aiming at Sherlock. “You’re dancing according to my tunes.” Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, retreating at the muzzle pointed at him.

John held his Sig steady in his left hand, while the right one curled around the heel of his hand for support. Slowly he moved the muzzle forward through the transparent rubber stripes, almost invisible in the semi-darkness. Unfortunately those stripes which obscured him, also blurred his view a bit for targeting accurately. Cursing under his breath, he took a step forward. She was too far away, at least twenty yards, which made a headshot almost impossible. So he let the muzzle wander slowly down. Her heart then, John decided. In this case he would have a wider range, and if the bullet didn’t find the heart, it would certainly find a shoulder or stomach. Hopefully she would let her gun fall when the pain hit her, and Sherlock could take care of Koizumi in the moment of confusion. Then John could take over and Emma would be save.

He grimaced when the adrenaline rushed through his veins mercilessly, his muscles utterly overstrained for balance when his finger curled tightly around the trigger; a deafening sound of detonation, of metal bang of the firing pin on the primer of the round. The bullet met the woman’s chest as expected in the heart, and she slumped to the ground with a last grunt. The noise had Emma wake up. Startled she cried at the top of her lungs. John winced at his daughter’s horrified scream and darted forward to help Sherlock with Koizumi but when he stood in the middle of the conveyor belt ready to jump off it, he already found Koizumi on the ground, half of his head cracked open; a bullet wound which had hit his left temple and ripped off half his skull with a splatter of blood and cerebral matter.

John looked at Sherlock alarmed but he was all right and unarmed, but where did that bullet come from?


	31. Foreshadowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes the extent of his decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

Emma’s cries were heartbreaking but as long as John didn’t know from where the other bullet came from, he didn’t dare to move. There were two long rows of conveyor belts in the huge hall, each belt to the side wall, and according to the shot’s angle the shooter must have been hidden behind the other conveyor belt across the corridor.

Both men were scanning the other side of the hall which was darker because there weren’t windows, letting at least some light from outside through. Narrowing his eyes, John waited for his eyes to adjust, and then he made out a movement; a dark figure in the shadow, beside the pale face which was quite visible.

“Mary?” He whispered, when his ex-wife climbed over the conveyor belt, crossing the hall. She was clad in black clothes, and Sherlock flinched slightly as he recalled the moment in Magnussen’s bureau where she wore the same outfit. Removing her beanie, she ran her hand through sweat-soaked hair.

“John.” She greeted him and gave a curt nod to Sherlock. She stopped in front of Koizumi’s body, wrinkling her nose as blood mixed with cerebral matter flooded from the gaping hole in his head.

The cries of Emma became weaker, her energy spent until tiny hiccups shuddered through her body. Mary cast a curious glance to the basket from the corner of her eyes but she didn’t dare to look closely. It was Sherlock in the end who took several long strides to retrieve the little girl out of the basket and cradled her close. Cautiously he patted her back to reassure and soothe her, not only for the girl but also for himself, as he realized. She was safe, and he inhaled deeply that fresh baby scent which would always remind him of Emma. A slight shiver of relief forced its way to his body when her hiccups slowly ebbed away.

He went back to John and handed her over to her daddy who crooned reassuring nonsense into her ear. “Why’re you here, Mary?” John asked eventually. Had she watched them since their last encounter? Did she want to connect to her daughter after all?

“It’s not what you think.” She replied his unspoken questions, trying to avoid staring at the little baby but failed miserably as her eyes were magnetically dragged back to her daughter.

“So Farnsworth’s after you now?” Sherlock asked, already foreseeing the answer while John furled his brows.

Mary nodded, her mouth suddenly dry at the dark reminder of her last failure. “When I haven’t finished my last job, I became a burden.” She snorted a contemptuous laugh, “He hired another assassin to get rid of me.” She pointed with her chin to the other woman, where an ugly red dyed the white of her blouse. “Of course I knew that Farnsworth would try to kill me. I plainly know too much. So I was prepared and knew who he would hire and followed her for a pre-emptive strike. I was surprised when she paid a visit to someone just a few blocks away from Baker Street. Coincidence?” She paused a moment, “Of course not. And then she reappeared with that little baby…” Trailing off with her thoughts, her eyes fixed on Emma’s face warmly, “She looks like you.” John wasn’t able to show any affection at the sudden emotional outburst of his ex-wife, and just sniffed curtly. “I just followed her until here and took necessary actions.”

“So basically Farnsworth has a massive pool of assassins he could hire anytime?” John asked sarcastically, scowling at Mary.

Her flicker of warmth faded again at the cool words. “Presumably.” She shrugged, “You don’t know how many people would kill for the right sum of money.”

“Now that’s explaining why you haven’t gone for Farnsworth yet.” John snapped angrily. _Because you won’t be paid for it_. He certainly didn’t want to know any more about people’s lesser appreciation for a life than money. That was a world he despised, the world of the criminals.

“I’m not risking that. Surely,” she contemplated for a second, “If Farnsworth laid a finger on Emma like this Japanese bastard, there’d await him much more pain than just a freeing shot in his head.” While John huffed scornfully at the two sides of the same coin, Mary looked at Sherlock, “Wouldn’t you agree?” But Sherlock didn’t oblige to nod his agreement, and just narrowed his eyes a fraction. It had been John, who had compared Mary and Sherlock as a common mind opposing his own character. _Look at you two. You should have got married_. They were thinking alike.

“Anyway,” she sighed heavily, “I’m leaving the country as soon as possible. You better sort that problem with Farnsworth quickly out because he’s a man who doesn’t wait too long.” She put her gun back into the belt holster, removing the silencer first. “Your brother,” she locked grave eyes with Sherlock, “He can’t always protect you.” Then her look dragged to the dead man on the ground, and Sherlock understood.

Before Mary left, she swayed a moment her eyes lingering at her daughter, indeed considering if she would close the gap between John and her to put a cool hand on the head of Emma. But then a subtle shake of her head showed that she shoved the thought away, tears stinging to her eyes when two blue pools looked at the unfamiliar face of the mother.

It didn’t take longer than another twenty minutes for Lestrade and his unit to show up at the crime scene. A look at the two bodies made him stare doubtfully at Sherlock, “Please tell me that has nothing to do with your case.” He rubbed his neck, already cursing the imminent paper work which had to explain two dead people.

Puffing up in front of the DI, Sherlock simply said, “It has.” He just wasn’t quite sure to what extent he would need to fill Lestrade in, without putting him in further danger, too, or how he would explain the broken memory stick.

Taking a closer look at the two bodies, he sighed, “Jesus,” then he waved the forensics to start with their work. “Okay. What happened?” His eyes shifted back and forth between his friends. “You look like shit.”

Indeed, Sherlock and John were exhausted. The stress of the day was plainly visible in their faces, making their shoulders slump. John cradled Emma closer, crooning meaningless words to her crown until she was half asleep.

“This is Takuya Koizumi,” Sherlock began, pointing to the dead Japanese man, “He’s supposed to be in prison but somehow he arrived at London on Friday evening. Allegedly he’s a business partner of Farnsworth but there’s no evidence; smuggling drugs to the UK for the pharmaceutical industry since the 90’s.” He paused, crouching down to pick the broken memory stick up, “We’ve found this in Akira Koizumi’s flat. It contained information about the witness protection program and about his connection to Farnsworth.” He paused to see the anger rising in the DI’s face, “It was not much, not enough to nail him down.”

“You withheld information again?” Lestrade barked in disbelief, and Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line. “Even you?” His eyes looked incredulously at John, who was simply too tired to react and just shrugged beaten.

“There wasn’t much information to withhold.” Sherlock pouted and put the stick into a little plastic bag which Lestrade held to him.

“We’ll see.” The DI murmured, “Maybe we can save some data.” He put the bag into his jacket pocket then his eyes lit on the bloody ground again, “And why do we have two bodies here?”

John rocked Emma carefully, taking now the lead of the conversation. “Koizumi had Emma abducted by that woman and blackmailed us; an exchange – Emma against the memory stick.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened at the harsh truth of John’s words, “What?” His eyes wandered to the little girl, who he and Molly had taken care of a while ago; a sweet little baby in the cold hands of a kidnapper.

Sniffing, John nodded, a new flash of anger overlapping his exhaustion. “When that woman was about to shoot Sherlock, I shot her.”

“Christ,” Lestrade’s shoulders slumped. Now he was also confronted to explain to his superiors a bullet of an unregistered gun. It was self-defense though but it meant a hell of paper work, and he already could taste the interference of Mycroft Holmes in that case. A frown crossed his face. Regarding the angle the woman had been shot, John couldn’t be the shooter of Koizumi either. “And who took care of that bastard?”

Pursing his lips for moment, John inhaled deeply, “Mary.”

Lestrade arched his brows, astonished, “Your ex-wife? She was here, too?” John shrugged helplessly. The DI’s look shifted back and forth between the dead bodies. _Never mess with the Watson’s_. He ran a hand through his graying short hair. “She’s gone again, I presume.”

John nodded, suddenly contemplating if they should have tried to stop her from leaving, at least she was a wanted murderer. Lestrade watched Emma in John’s arm squirming. He noticed that the little girl needed some rest. “All right,” he sighed, “I’ll give you a ride home to take care of the sweetling.” He heard Sherlock huff indignantly at the endearment but ignored the consulting detective, still being cross with him. “But I expect your report tomorrow nine o’clock sharp on my desk.”

Lestrade could be quick-tempered every now and then, but John was grateful that his friend had despite Sherlock’s opinion a good deductive look. Not only John but also Sherlock were emotionally wrung out. The fear of never seeing their daughter again hung still over their heads, the waves of horror only slowly receding as John realized the shivers rippling through his body making way for the aftershock.

On their way home Sherlock, John and Emma were crowded in the rear seats of Lestrade’s private car. Somehow he was even able to have a baby seat produced by some new officer who had been eager to please his superior. At the DI’s suggestion, Sherlock had declined the offer of sitting in the front seat. His own body had started to give way to uncontrollable quivers, desperately seeking the closeness of John beside him. Lestrade observed the strange behavior of his two friends but didn’t say anything, letting his own deductions flood his mind, smiling mentally.

Although their bodies were joined from their shoulders down to their leg, and their fingers entwined, Sherlock looked absent-mindedly out of the window, the flashing light of streetlights and cars illuminating his troubled face in a play of black and white shades.

“I’ve told you, haven’t I?” Mycroft was standing in the long corridor several yards away from Sherlock, his weight braced on his umbrella, scowling at Sherlock. The little boy of about ten years pursed his lips sulkily. Mycroft took some deliberate steps towards his younger brother, the umbrella tapping viciously on the floor. “I’ve told you to stay away from that case.”

“You should’ve told me about the danger before.” The younger version of Sherlock shouted, the walls echoing his accusation. “Why haven’t you told me before?”

Mycroft came to a halt in front of Sherlock, bending down, “Because you should’ve started to trust me by now, Sherlock.” Then he straightened his back, squaring his shoulders as the adult Sherlock clad in his two-piece suit, covered with his woolen Belstaff stood in front of him. Lifting his chin defiantly at his little brother, Mycroft continued, “You were a selfish child, brother dear, and you still are a selfish man, ignoring the friendly warnings not only by me but also by your dear Dr. Watson. That will never change, especially in regard to your work. _I_ can handle this,” Mycroft paused, casting a glance to a wooden door next to them. An embedded glass panel in the door gave view to the hidden room, and Sherlock could see in the semi-darkness the figure of John cradling Emma close, his face tortured by painful fear. “But can _he_ handle this, too?” It was a spark of doubt which flickered inside of him. Suddenly the room started to brighten, lights gleaming across his face until Sherlock realized where he was, back in Lestrade’s car, holding a hand with John. A subtle tremor in Sherlock’s hand, made John look at the empty face of his friend who was still frowning out of the window.

“Thanks Greg.” John shot a last glance into the DI’s car, waving his goodbye. Sherlock barely noticed Lestrade anymore and just went to the front door. Although it was already late, John couldn’t bear to bring Emma to bed, not now. Sherlock headed for their bedroom and closed the door. John knew he wanted to shut his friend out, as he listened to the angry baritone arguing with his older brother about not being able to even protect a little baby. The former anger which had flushed John, flooded now through Sherlock’s body and he needed to give vent to his anger. Mycroft was the best target for this, and John knew that the older Holmes wouldn’t be resentful. That’s what their little feud was – meaningless accusations of each other’s failures.

While John listened to the ebbing annoyance of his friend, he snuggled Emma into the crook of his arm, giving her the bottle after so many hours of nothing to drink. He scanned her every feature, looking for any injury, any damage which could be left behind. Fortunately he didn’t find anything but a greedily sucking little girl with dark blue eyes, looking contently at her father.

When she had finished her bottle, he indulged her with a warm bath playing with her while they chased the bubbles of the foam. He enjoyed the giggling and squeaking when he noticed that Sherlock had given up blowing off his steam and suddenly stood behind them in the door. Like John earlier his eyes wandered over her tiny body, looking for any remnants which could have left her devastated but surprisingly the little girl seemed unimpressed by the day’s events. For a moment Sherlock just closed his eyes, inhaling deeply the warm humid air of the bath, and noticed how his tension slowly faded. Luckily a baby of Emma’s age wouldn’t remember anything of her abduction.

They tucked her into bed together. Sherlock even played some lullabies on the violin for Emma which weren’t necessary because their daughter was simply to exhausted from the day and slept the minute she was lain down. Afterwards they followed suit, and changed into their pajamas to head for bed. Relishing the soft mattress beneath them, they faced each other sleepily, too exhausted for words. But there weren’t words necessary at all. John reached for Sherlock to cup his jaw, feeling the faint stubbles beneath his fingertips, communicating silently reassurance at the sight of Sherlock’s still worried face. A vague smile crossed his friend’s lips, and he took John’s hand in his own, squeezing his thank and pulling it to his chest as if he was afraid of letting it go would mean to loose John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I needed to split this chapter because it would get too long. The following chapter is already written but still needs some editing which I’ll wrap up tomorrow. So I guess next update will be Friday.


	32. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock awakes to a nightmare which John troubles in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

A sudden jolt of John’s hand in the middle of the night pulled Sherlock out of the drowsiness of a dreamless sleep. Searching the digits on his clock, he saw that it wasn’t even past four o’clock. Yet he heard the faint sounds of Baker Street pervading through the open window, indicating that London slowly awoke from its short night. He turned back to John, perceiving the tremor beside him. Obviously John was having a dream. A grunt of his friend made Sherlock shudder as John’s movement went from subtle to fitful, and Sherlock switched the dim light of his bedside lamp on. Looking at John’s convulsing body, he laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to convey calmness.

“John.” He whispered softly.

With a jerk his eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly the bleary images of his nightmare away as he realized where he was. When his eyes found Sherlock beside him, the tension went off his body and he immediately relaxed into the soft mattress.

“You had a nightmare.” Even if his friend whispered, John could feel the deep tones resonating in his chest.

he nodded affirmatively, “The day’s taking its toll.”

In the shadows of the room Sherlock’s eyes rather seemed to be silvery than pale blue. He averted his intense gaze, “I’m so sorry.”

Knitting his brows, John didn’t understand the apology, “For what?”

Sherlock drew a shaky intake of breath, his troubles of the past hours lying on the tip of his tongue. “I’ve put Emma and you in unnecessary danger. I took the case despite Mycroft’s warning.” His look darted shortly to John’s eyes and then back. “And despite your warning, too.”

But John shook his head in disbelief, “It was my very own decision to follow you, wasn’t it?” He paused, struggling for the right words, “To follow you wherever you’re going. It’s not _your_ fault. It’s what _we_ are and what _we_ do.”

“But maybe we should refrain from…” He felt an uneasy convulsion in his stomach, “… _we_.” It was barely an audible whisper but John couldn’t believe his ears. What was Sherlock suggesting?

“You cannot be serious.” John scolded in utter disbelief. “Sherlock, you of all the selfish people do know that this is no reason to throw Emma and me out.” Sherlock pressed his lips tightly to a thin line, now that John had spoken the word aloud. A hero can’t have family and friends. That’s what he was thinking. “I’d like to make my own decisions, and I decided long ago to follow you. Only because we have a daughter now, doesn’t change that fact. We’ll need to be more careful now with our private life, that’s all.” Sniffing, John reached for Sherlock’s face to cup it, tracing a finger across the sharp cheekbone, his voice soft again, “You’ve begun this… _us_ … and now you can’t back out just because there’re some new players.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning his face into John’s palm, seeking the warmth in it. John had made a valid point. Just because things were getting complicated, didn’t give him the right to shoo John and Emma away. He remembered his decision to leave John behind almost three years ago, when he selfishly decided to fake his own death and went to dismantle Moriarty’s network alone. It left both of them devastated.

A timid tug at Sherlock’s jaw indicated that he wanted Sherlock to dip his face and close the distance between their faces. Soft lips met each other in a careful and shy touch while their last conversation still clouded their heads. But John parted his lips, his tongue tracing the salty remnants of hidden tears. Sherlock’s own tongue met John’s and they slid across each other in a known dance. John even felt so bolt as to suck lazily at the tip, and Sherlock moaned into his friend’s mouth. A kiss which had started tenderly and tentatively let Sherlock’s veins flood with heat, painting his cheeks down to his neck in a beautiful pink. The heat manifested into a sweet flutter in his belly, making the pit of his stomach drop and clench at the hot feeling.

Another feral groan escaped his mouth and he rolled over John, carefully supporting his weight on his elbows which were propped beside John’s head. Like this he had better access to fully explore John’s mouth while their bodies clung to each other in a symphony; their half-hard evidence prodding into each other’s crotches.

Sherlock broke the kiss eventually to suck in the necessary oxygen. He looked down at John in amazement, “I won’t go anywhere unless you want me to go.” He rasped.

“That will never happen.” John replied, raking one hand through the hair of Sherlock’s back of the head and pulling him down again.

While their tender kiss started to ebb away and made way for something stronger, something more urgent. Sherlock began to roll his hips against John who gasped when their hard cocks met in the rhythm. His hands wandered down to Sherlock’s ambitious waist, trailing the exposed skin between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his blue striped cotton trousers, and cupping the crest of his hipbones.

Sherlock had left John’s mouth in the meantime, licking his way down his jaw, tracing the edge of his face with his tongue. As an invitation John lifted his head slightly to expose the soft flesh of his neck, and Sherlock obliged happily by trailing soft kisses along to his collarbone. He sucked at the pulse, and smiled against the skin when he felt the throbbing at his lips, having the beat of a running rabbit rather than of a human.

Arriving at the shirt collar Sherlock made a disapproving grunt, tugging at the hem of John’s shirt. Annoyed at his failure to remove the cloth, he braced his weight on his arms’ length. “Get it off.” He growled, locking hungry eyes with John who smiled mischievously. Wriggling under Sherlock he managed to pull the thin fabric over his head and flung it across their bed where it landed disheveled on the floor. But before Sherlock could come down on John again, John’s hand already had the hem of Sherlock pajama shirt pulled over his friend’s head, too.

When naked skin met naked skin, John involuntarily thrust up into Sherlock base of the belly; the tingling sensation fueled his want for more. Sherlock smirked, and continued with his tongue to trail the way southward until he encountered a protruding bud. Tentatively he circled the nipple, and John arched his back once again, his cock now prodding at Sherlock’s sternum. Sucking gently at the bud, he let his teeth scrape over the sensitive rosy flesh.

Although it didn’t hurt, John articulated a feigned, “Ouch!” and he felt Sherlock grin against his skin again. A short flicker of his tongue ran over the bud and then a cool breeze by Sherlock’s deliberate blowing, made John shiver; his whole body rippling in delicate goose bumps.

Sherlock trailed his way further down, meeting the rising and falling of John’s ribcage. Below the ridge he found softer flesh moving over the planes of his abdomen. Sherlock rested his cheek there, carefully not increasing too much pressure. Below the navel went a thin line of blonde hair until it was obscured by the waistband of John’s gray pajama trousers. Like this Sherlock had a good view at the cloth and the bulge hidden beneath it.

John squirmed a bit under the scrutinizing gaze of his friend and the ticklish sensation of his hair on his belly. Sherlock trailed the waistband of John’s trousers with one long finger, teasing him by brushing unintentionally with his knuckles along his twitching cock.

“Jesus,” he gasped and tossed his head back.

Sherlock lifted his head curiously, wanting to see John’s face while he gave him this pleasure. Heavy-lidded eyes made his lashes flutter, while his mouth sucked desperately fresh air in. Then determination overwhelmed Sherlock, and he hooked one finger behind the waistband and tugged gently, indicating for John to lift his butt for a second. In one swift move was the trousers gone and joined John’s shirt on the floor.

Cloudy eyes focused on John’s straining erection, while Sherlock lowered himself again in a more comfortable position when he left a first shy kiss on the tip. At the explosion of sensation John shifted involuntarily under Sherlock’s weight, trying not to thrust blindly up into his friend’s mouth.

Then Sherlock’s tongue trailed the ridge of John’s glans, and every restraint was gone. So Sherlock put a splayed hand firmly on the stomach of his friend, and his other hand held his hip to prevent him not to thrust up too hard. Beneath Sherlock’s hand pooled a warmth in John’s stomach which was forced to convulse in a sweet rhythm. This feeling was only fueled when Sherlock circled his lips around John’s cock, hollowing his cheeks to suck his length in. Many and more curses were on the verge of John’s lips at the hot wetness but they were simply caught in John’s throat as he panted desperately. The dizzy feeling was supported by Sherlock’s slow pace of gliding up and down, mixed with an increasing pressure of between his tongue and palate.

The rhythm was intoxicating, and John felt as if he would dissolve under Sherlock’s heavy hand, loosing every sense of gravity. Just out of sultry curiosity John forced his heavy-lidded eyes open, to tilt his head a bit and have a look at Sherlock, whose head was steadily bobbing up and down. There was a moment of silence while he watched his lover in awe; a moment where Sherlock lay between his legs in the most beautiful and most vulnerable way possible to give John uttermost pleasure.

A sweet convulsion pooled in the base of his belly, ready to explode, as he husked, “Oh God, I’m going to come…” And he let his head throw back into his neck, clenching his fists into the sheets. It was meant as a warning that Sherlock should let go but instead he increased the pressure of his hands, pinning John to the mattress. And then there was the moment, when stars exploded behind tight shut eyes, and a gasp was caught in his throat, only giving way to a hoarse groan of pleasure.

Semen spurted into Sherlock’s mouth, and he swallowed it, giving John one more lazy suck to clean the last spill off his softening cock. While John had ridden the wave of his orgasm, Sherlock squirmed and moaned, reflecting the pleasure John had experienced but his hands had held him in place, and he wasn’t able to touch himself for the so much needed release.

When he let go of John’s cock, he was panting heavily. He drew himself closer to John and collapsed beside him. John opened his eyes as the mattress dipped under the weight of his lover, and he could see the black pools in his eyes, betraying the still present arousal.

“Come here.” John patted the vacant place beside him, and they drew themselves closer, legs entangling. Sherlock was a hopeless misery of want, and John obliged to help him. Tilting his head a bit, he sought Sherlock’s lip for another fervent kiss while his hand slid past the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama trousers. It was an awkward angle but John was able to curl his hand around the rigid shaft of Sherlock’s erection. At the sudden sensation his lover thrust unabashedly into John’s tight grip while he moaned into his mouth. John helped him with sharp pumps down his length. He felt Sherlock’s cock twitch in his palm and knew that he wouldn’t last long.

With a deep rumble bubbling up his throat and a loud groan escaping his mouth, his own climax washed over him. Electrifying and rippling impulses radiating from the head of his cock and piercing through his whole body, which left him feeling himself numb in the face of his orgasm. In the meantime John was kissing him tenderly along his jaw and throat, a sensation which drew him back from the edge of blankness, and his focus returned again to John.

They lay there for a while, panting and trying to even their ragged breaths. “That was brilliant.” John exhaled a moment later, smiling shyly at Sherlock, who raised a mocking eyebrow. Shifting his weight, he took off his messed trousers and wiped the rest of his sticky fluid off his crotch. The cloth landed next to John’s abandoned t-shirt on the floor. Then he returned to their entangled position, stifling a yawn while he weaved their fingers.

It didn’t last long and they succumbed again to an exhausted sleep but this time without any disturbance of nightmares.


	33. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a decision after a burglary at New Scotland Yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

After another three hours of peaceful sleep they were awoken by Emma’s scolding wails of protest because no-one had come when she still was babbling in her sweet tones.

Sherlock, who naturally had the capability to find his way quickly out of the bleariness of sleep, got up while John still lay on his belly. “I go.” The deep baritone whispered into John’s ear brushing the sensitive skin just for a second.

John heard his friend’s slightly uncoordinated steps, heading up the stairs. When the door to his former bedroom was opened the cries immediately ebbed away. For a moment he felt guilty for not going himself. But as much as he longed to see his little daughter again, the last day’s events and Sherlock’s sweet attack last night had left him utterly exhausted and his body barely complied with his mind. With a grunt he tossed himself onto his back, staring at the ceiling. It was an odd mix of feelings which rushed through his body. The worry about Emma, the case and Sherlock’s warmth despite the fact that he wanted to leave John and Emma just a few hours ago. Oh, how he longed to find a solution to this dilemma finally.

Reluctantly he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. On his way to the kitchen he scooped his pajama trousers up and shrugged rather ungracefully into them, hobbling his way to the kettle. While he prepared breakfast in his practiced routine, he cast a glance on Lestrade’s papers which needed to be filled in until nine o’clock. He groaned at the pending task.

John heard Sherlock and Emma discussing what his daughter could wear for the day; whether a little dress would be appropriate or rather thin cotton trousers. John chuckled at his friend’s manners with Emma, as if the little girl already would understand everything he said.

When breakfast was prepared, Sherlock came down with her, just clad in his blue silk dressing gown. For a moment John found himself staring at the long vee tracing down to his stomach. Sometimes he had imagined what it would be like to be in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. All those years he had never seen himself in the place of his boyfriend, yet he had been curious. And now the impressions were served directly in front of him. It was completely different from his imaginations. He had always presumed Sherlock to be wooden in a relationship, maintaining his attitudes and never allow someone else – even his partner – to show his true face. At least that was the impression John had observed while Janine had been around. But this real Sherlock right here, felt comfortable in every possible way, not giving a second thought about how he would provoke other people’s reactions. John sighed, dragging his eyes from the beautiful alabaster skin. Maybe it worked because they were friends for such a long time before?

Shoving the thoughts aside, he realized that he wanted to live here and now, letting every day to be a surprise. Only like this their relationship could work, and hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t get bored.

“Savoring what you see?” Sherlock asked with a chuckle while he fed Emma. Eventually he had decided for the thin white cotton trousers with embroidered roses.

John hummed an agreement from over the rim of his cup, and his friend indeed blushed a bit.

“You didn’t expect it to be like that?” Sherlock deduced rather amused by John’s astonished reaction but John wasn’t to be fooled. There was actually a hint of uncertainty in his question.

“Well,” John searched for the right words, “When we met you were all giddy with excitement and sharp as long as there was work to do, but you could also be quite prickly and hurtful, especially when you were bored…”

But before John could finish his thought, Sherlock spoke up, locking his pale blue eyes with John’s in all honesty, “But I’m not bored anymore.”

John took a sip of his tea, contemplating those words. They were rather ambiguous; wasn’t he bored anymore because of the new foundation of their relationship, or was he referring to the case? Probably a mix of both, John concluded, and his eyes fell involuntarily on the report they still had to write. He sighed and took the sheet and a pen.

The paperwork lasted for another hour and his hand cramped in the end of too much writing. When they were dressed, they headed for New Scotland Yard, taking Emma with them. The building was always a mess of people, running from one office to the next. But at Lestrade’s unit was more uproar than normal. Heading to the DI’s office, Donovan suddenly stood in their way. “Look who’s here.” She started in her usual spiteful tone, “Sorry, but I can’t let you through.”

Sherlock’s eyes wandered behind Donovan. Forensics was doing their job in Lestrade’s office and a sudden uneasiness crept up on him. “Where’s Lestrade?”

Narrowing her eyes at the consulting detective, Donovan bathed in his lack of knowledge, “We had a burglary last night. You have to wait.” With this she walked back to the DI’s office, where they finally saw the man with the graying hair, arguing with someone of the forensics.

Leaning over to John, he whispered sulkily in his ear, “Let me train Emma to kick her shinbone every time we see her. Children aren’t supposed to have legal consequences for being rude to a police officer, right?!” John looked at his friend in disbelief for involving Emma in this feud, yet he couldn’t stifle a giggle.

“I guess you’re here for the report.” Lestrade came to them, taking the paper from John’s hand. He turned around to have a look at his ravaged office. “We had a burglary.” He repeated Donovan’s words, rubbing his stiff neck from too less sleep.

“What was stolen?” Sherlock’s voice sounded a bit tense at his own presumptions.

“Nothing.” He frowned, his hand wandering to his jacket pocket.

“The memory stick.” Sherlock deduced correctly, and the DI nodded in agreement.

Detective Inspector Lestrade might be seeking the help of a consulting detective every now and then, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew about Jenkins and Farnsworth’s use of hired assassins. He knew that even people from inside the Yard could have been infiltrated. If the memory stick contained sensitive information, Lestrade would have decided not to rely on someone else. That is why he had kept it in his jacket pocket. He nodded eventually, “Yeah,” he sighed, “And now we know that Farnsworth had even reached my unit.”

“No camera footage?” John tossed in but Lestrade shook his head.

He leant to his two friends, lowering his voice, “Listen,” he considered his plan for a moment because he began to withhold evidence himself and this would mean he could suffer the consequences, “I have a good friend who can try his luck with the data recovery. As long as we don’t know who did try to steal the evidence I keep it.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled at the DI’s plan. He nodded approvingly. “Any news about Jenkins?”

“No. He’s in solitary confinement. I arranged two prison officers I trust to have an eye on him. But he still refuses to talk.”

For a moment Sherlock’s eyes seemed unfocused but with a snap they shifted to the crime scene in Lestrade’s office, “That’s probably not necessary anymore.” Then he turned around abruptly, tugging at John’s arm. “Come on, we have an appointment.”

Folding his eyebrows together, John didn’t quite understand Sherlock’s sudden outburst of epiphany. When Sherlock formed a plan in his mind, John knew that he needn’t to interrupt his friend’s train of thoughts because he couldn’t follow them. So he waited patiently until they had left the building and Sherlock was fishing his mobile out of his trouser pocket. But before he could dial a number, John’s warm hand covered the display, “Sherlock?” His friend’s sharp eyes softened a bit at the questioning look of steel blue eyes, “Please fill me in.”

“Isn’t it obvious, John?” And there was the Sherlock again, razor-sharp intelligent mind, hurtful to everybody who couldn’t follow his thoughts. But John couldn’t get irritated anymore by this behavior. He raised in eyebrow, scolding just with a look slightly. Sherlock’s shoulders slumped defeated as he realized his manners, “The burglary implies that Farnsworth doesn’t know that the memory stick is damaged.” John tried to catch the meaning but shook his head subtly. How would that help them? “Now we’re at an advantage; we have something that Farnsworth wants. I always believed that Koizumi was after the stick, not Farnsworth. Obviously he thinks there’s compromising information on the stick.”

“Despite the fact, that we actually don’t have it.” John pursed his lips, not liking the idea at all.

Sherlock nodded subtly, “But Farnsworth does not know this.” His eyes started to sparkle even darker, “We’re going to set up a trap for him on his own terrain, and then we nail him down.”

“How?” John still didn’t understand.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock arched his brows, ignoring John’s clueless expression and dialed the number for Farnsworth’s office.

An emphatic female voice picked the call up, rattling through the usual greeting of name and company introduction, “What can I do for you?”

“This is Sherlock Holmes. I’d like to speak to Lord Dorian Farnsworth.” Sherlock spoke in clipped tones, ignoring the subtle snort of the woman on the other end of the line. Presumably, no-one called Farnsworth’s PA for putting him through to her boss immediately.

“You have to make an appointment.” The chirping sound slowly faded and was replaced by somewhat annoyed petulance.

“Well then,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, his voice becoming even deeper with a very dangerous edge, “Tell him my name and that we need to meet us in private in his office. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Sir,” the PA’s voice chuckled at the audacity of her interlocutor, “Lord Farnsworth’s appointment calendar is full until October. I’m afraid but…”

Sherlock cut her off, becoming snappy, “Listen, it’ll be very easy if you want to keep your job. You’re going to tell your boss that I am coming now and make clear that all his appointments for today are canceled, or your boss will face half Scotland Yard in less than an hour.” He waited to let the information sink in and added, “Is that clear?”

Even though he couldn’t see the woman’s face he was quite sure that she went pale as a ghost at the predicament she was forced to face now. “Yes sir.”

Sherlock smiled pleased at his mobile, and then ended the call. Then he turned abruptly to John, “Molly will take care of Emma while we’re paying our visit.”

Frowning, John still didn’t understand Sherlock’s plan but Molly was working at the morgue and this was definitely no place for a little girl. “I don’t know Sherlock. Molly’s at work. We can’t disturb her whenever we want.” But surely they couldn’t take Emma along to Farnsworth. “Maybe Mrs. Carlyle’s better again.” He suggested when he realized that they hadn’t asked for her health after the paramedics took care of her.

Sherlock shook his head, “No. Mrs. Carlyle is known to Farnsworth.” Then his eyes shifted a fraction warmer, “But Molly doesn’t count.”

Now John was completely at a loss. Helplessly he waved his hands in front of Sherlock, implying that he wanted clear explanations of what was going on in his friend’s massive brain. “You’re talking in riddles, Sherlock.” It was a fair warning which indicated if his friend wouldn’t fill John in, his temper would change into a bad mood.

“Moriarty wanted to attack those he believed I took care of – you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. But he failed to observe that I unconsciously included Molly as well.” He paused when a flicker of uncertainty crossed John’s eyes. “She didn’t count, and so she was able to help me out without drawing attention. Believe me,” he put a reassuring hand onto John’s shoulder, “Emma’s perfectly save with her.”

While Sherlock hailed a cab, John realized for the first time since his friend rose from the dead that this was the reason why Molly was included in his plan back then. He knew it was absurd but until now there was always a small nagging feeling of jealousy because Sherlock had included her but excluded his best friend.

On their way to St. Bart’s John had decided to call Mrs. Carlyle while Sherlock seemed to text with Mycroft. Mrs. Carlyle had a concussion as John had presumed but she was at home again. “She’s even inclined to take care of Emma again when she’s better. It seems you made quite an impression on her.” John said amused.

“Maybe we should stick with her. Against her surface impression she’s quite tough.” Sherlock mumbled without glancing up from his mobile, frantically typing messages.

“Somehow, she reminds me of your mother.” John chuckled while Sherlock raised one brow incredulously, looking at his friend. It were those rare moments when John got Sherlock completely off-guard and a heartily laughter bubbled up his throat. “Now I’ve got your attention.” His dark blue eyes shifted from the crease between Sherlock brows to his phone, “Will you fill me in eventually?”

Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s gaze to the messages – the instructions – he had sent to his older brother. His grip tightened around the mobile. “Like I said, we’re going to lure Farnsworth into a trap.”

“How?”

“We’re going to make him confess his crimes. We’ll offer the memory stick in an exchange for security, as insurance.” His eyes scanned his mobile, and he was reminded of Irene Adler, who had considered her camera phone to be her insurance as well; in the end it almost didn’t turned out well, if not for Sherlock’s help. “And while we winkle his confessions out of him, we have Mycroft on the mobile hidden in my jacket pocket.” He patted his chest pocket of his black jacket. “A witness from the British secret service with a Dictaphone will definitely be enough to nail him down and send him to prison.”

Sherlock knew that this wasn’t the best plan he ever had but he was running out of ideas. And he was determined not to wait any longer for another assassin to pounce on them. He had made his mind, and if this plan didn’t work out, he still had a backup plan of which he wouldn’t explain to John.


	34. Farnsworth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock confront Farnsworth. Yet again the businessman seems to be one step ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

Molly wasn’t too pleased of playing the babysitter again, especially because she had an autopsy going on. But in the end she couldn’t resist Sherlock’s false smiles and puppy eyes pleading. By now she knew his faces, and she knew that he was making it up, yet she agreed.

After leaving a little peck on Emma’s cheek, Sherlock already dashed for the corridor while John nodded gratefully to Molly.

“You take care of him.” She waved her goodbye, chewing her bottom lip while John looked a bit baffled at her words. Although Molly Hooper seemed to be a little naïve and flustered occasionally, she wasn’t to be fooled. She had once deduced Sherlock Holmes, before he had come to her for help faking his own death. Somehow her senses were on the alert again. The detective had something sad, something desolate hidden in his eyes. She shook her head in disbelief, as if she wanted to shake off her own stupid fears.

“Did you bring your gun with you?” Sherlock asked in a low voice while the taxi navigated through the labyrinth of London’s streets for their destination.

“Yes, of course,” replied John, instinctively reaching with his left hand to the small of his back and feeling the evidence; the otherwise cold metal was warmed up by his own body temperature. Since the day before, he had sworn to himself never to leave their home again without his Sig. “I just hope I don’t have to use it. Lestrade will kill me if he has to explain another bullet from an unregistered weapon.” Not that John would care if Farnsworth wouldn’t get away with his life though.

Sherlock’s face betrayed a grim look, his gaze turning to the world outside of the cab. It was his self-proclaimed battleground; the gray and brown buildings, old and new, Tube stations with their stairs leading down to London’s underground network, people pursuing their daily business like ants which could be squashed instantly if someone just wanted to.

He hadn’t noticed that his hand had found its free will and weaved his fingers with John’s, squeezing slightly for reassurance. They remained silent for the rest of the drive. John knew he needn’t ask his friend how they would lure Farnsworth into a trap because that was something Sherlock would most certainly improvise. If they made up a thread for the conversation John would fail horribly and the plan wouldn’t work. So he just bit his tongue, and hoped that Sherlock knew what he was doing.

When they stepped out of the cab to find themselves in front of a modern glass building of twenty floors, Sherlock retrieved his mobile and called Mycroft. John heard the tense voice of Sherlock’s older brother through the speaker. He looked around to find a surveillance team of at least ten armed security guards. The stage was set, he mused.

Sherlock put the mobile into his chest pocket with the wrong side up, so the speaker stuck out of the fabric of the pocket, only visible for Sherlock when he looked down. Then they entered the futuristic building, heading for the reception to register their visit. The receptionist called Farnsworth’s office which was situated at the topmost floor, and handed John and Sherlock two badges which marked them as visitors of top priority.

They were shown which elevator they could use, and made their ascent, swallowing when the pressure in their ears became inconvenient. When the door opened they were faced with a broad hallway which ended at a glass front from where they had a good view over London’s business district.

“Nothing for people with acrophobia.” John mused loudly while he watched twenty floors down, feeling the involuntary pull of gravity. Sherlock didn’t seem to be impressed because his attention was rather called to a big wooden double door made of white beech, the color a contrast to the dark marble floor. The door was to their right and blocked their way to Farnsworth’s office. The desk of his PA beside the door was abandoned, and anyway, there was no-one to be seen – no other visitors, no employees, nobody. Sherlock’s black leather shoes clicked on the polished marble floor while he leant over the desk in hope to find some useful information but the computer had been shut down.

After a moment, one door opened and Farnsworth appeared, his usual self in a light gray three-piece suit, the sun shining through the windows made it beam silvery with each movement. It matched his sparse graying hair; his almost turquoise shimmering eyes piercing through the minds of his opponents. John’s intermittent tremor immediately took hold of his body, flexing his left hand.

“I’m so sorry that you needed to find the way on your own. But I needed to fire my PA.” Farnsworth sneered, his eyes sparkling provocatively at Sherlock.

“What?” John huffed a scornful laugh, “Because she needed to cancel your other appointments for today to meet with us?”

Farnsworth deadly eyes shifted slowly to John, a nasty grin curling his lips, “No, because she hasn’t immediately reacted properly and announced your wish for an appointment.”

John looked a bit taken aback, then he realized that the businessman was up for a power play. He gestured his two guests to enter his office but took the lead nonetheless rather to give them the advantage of entering first.

The office was huge and had a vast glass front like in the waiting area in front of the bureau. Farnsworth’s desk stood in the corner of the room directly in front of the window. In the middle of the room were two black leather couches, and two armchairs around a matching black table with a glass table top, seemingly to serve coffee or tea for his business partners. The black marble floor with its black furniture was quite in contrast to the white walls and the glass front.

Sherlock was unfazed and took his seat without any request on the couch opposing the windows. He sprawled his body languidly onto the couch, folding his legs and resting his arms spread on the back, a cheeky grin displayed in his face. “You have quite a view,” he announced, “Look John, you can even see the London Eye from here.”

John, who still stood at the door, gaping, tried to regain his composure. He cleared his voice awkwardly, noticing he wasn’t used to such wealth. The interior of the Diogenes Club was old-fashioned, but this modern architecture and furnishing stank of decadence. “The London Eye?” He repeated, stepping into the room as he realized he hadn’t replied to Sherlock’s question.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied enthusiastically, “Surely you do remember that nasty murder not quite a while ago – a young Japanese woman, Shiori Ono.” He dragged his eyes to Farnsworth, who had taken a seat beside the couch on one of the armchairs. His elbows propped onto the armrests, hands folded in front of him, inspecting Sherlock in keen amusement. “She was executed in one of the capsules by the assassin who was murdered by Jenkins in prison.”

“Such a horrible act,” Farnsworth tossed in, feigning empathy then changed the subject, “Please Dr. Watson, do have a seat.”

But John shook his head stubbornly, “I rather stand. Thank you.”

Squaring his shoulders, the Lord let his hands drop to the armrests, leaving a quite openly aggressive figure – the same as Sherlock displayed. “I must apologize but without my PA I cannot offer you any coffee or tea.”

“That’s not necessary,” drawled Sherlock, shrugging. “We’re not here for an exchange of courtesies.” He remarked, mirroring the conversation of their first encounter at 221B. He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes, his voice turning sharper, “We’re here for an exchange of information.”

Farnsworth’s eyes sparkled at the remark with a hint of amusement again but Sherlock wasn’t to be fooled. He saw the rage in his body language – squared shoulders, tensed muscles, the foot of his folded leg rising up the tip in expectation of the deal, his hands gripping the leather of the armchair that even the white of the knuckles were visible. “And what’re you offering?” Behind the fake smile he barely could hide the snarl emerging.

“The memory stick of Akira Koizumi.” Sherlock locked his ice blue eyes with Farnsworth’s turquoise squinting eyes, never leaving the contact, analyzing each movement, each gesture to grasp his weak point and make him confess.

“And what’re you hoping to receive in return?” The Lord leant a fraction forward in expectation.

“Peace,” said John immediately, stepping behind the couch where Sherlock rested his back, “We want that you withdraw your men from Baker Street and leave us be.”

Farnsworth snorted a laugh but his composure returned as he realized his behavior, his eyes now set on John, smiling innocently, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“I think you do.” John wasn’t such a talented actor like Sherlock but he didn’t need to hide his emotions. It was well known that he was the heart of the duo. He was indeed furious at the insolence of this ruthless man, making his hair stand on end. Feeling the heavy weight of his Sig at the small of his back, he needed to refrain from the urge to just grab it for reassurance.

While John glared at the snobbish man, Sherlock exhaled a sigh, “There’s sensible information on that stick which might be of your concern.”

Farnsworth dragged his eyes back to Sherlock, “Then what are we bargaining for?”

“There’s proof that you were in connection with the Yakuza – the Koizumi clan.” Sherlock lifted his chin slightly in defiance.

The businessman chuckled unpleasantly, “Your brother knows as much but never got the opportunity to truly prove anything. You’re bluffing.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes disapprovingly, “Am I?”

Getting up with a creak of the leather, Farnsworth headed to his desk to pick a remote up. “Then pray tell me, why is it, you’re here and not half Scotland Yard?” Suddenly his amused features were gone and his voice got a sharp edge. “If there was proof, certainly DI Lestrade would be here to handcuff me.” In a mocking gesture he turned around, as if he would be looking for someone, “Well but he isn’t here, is he?” He had returned to Sherlock, towering over him and wrinkling his nose, “You are bluffing, Mr. Holmes.”

While the man loomed over his friend threateningly, John was heavily inclined to punch his face for intruding the private space of Sherlock. But before John could determine his next step, Farnsworth straightened his back again, looking for his 65 inch television at the wall. Switching it on with the remote, he cast John a derogatory look, “Well then, you will hand me that memory stick either way.”

The screen came alive and a black and white picture appeared. The camera was focused on the middle of the display, showing a small room with a shadow sitting on a chair. Suddenly the light was switched on and the shadow betrayed the frame of a woman, wearing black clothes. John’s eyes widened in shock at the picture. “Mary.”

A small smile curled around Farnsworth’s lips triumphantly. He had been able to catch the thorn in his side. Mary was seated on an old wooden chair, her arms and legs were fixated with zipties to the chair’s armrest and chair legs. John could see the grazed skin where the zipties were bound too tight. Her hair was tousled and the left side of her face was swollen and bruised from a blow by her captor. Even though she had betrayed him and had shot Sherlock, the woman sitting in that chair was Mary Morstan with whom John had fallen in love with years ago. He could never switch that button off. Flexing his left hand, John felt the rush of fury blinding his thinking. Instinctively he was about to reach for his gun but then Sherlock cleared his voice, and it took John back to consider their situation. As long as Farnsworth held Mary hostage there wasn’t anything they could do.

“Leverage always proves to be the weakness of the angels.” Farnsworth sneered, bathing in the consternation of his guests. Sherlock was very well aware that he spoke in metaphors for his own good. Obviously he suspected to be bugged.

Sherlock got up, smoothing the creases off his suit, cold eyes set on Farnsworth. He reached in his chest pocket, and pressed the button to end the call, unseen by John. Most certainly that would bring Mycroft to the scene within the next ten minutes, he assumed. He took a deep intake of breath, “Where is she?”

The Lord’s unearthly turquoise eyes glimmered dangerously, “In the basement of this building.” He confessed, and John needed to suppress the urge to just dart for the elevator because that would leave Sherlock unprotected. “She’s a convicted murderer, and I’ll hand her over to the police as soon as possible.” He paused to observe the astonished faces of his guests. “Something you failed to accomplish at least twice, if I recall correctly. I am indeed inclined to pass that information on to the detective chief inspector.” His voice betrayed the mocking concern. “You as well as DI Lestrade withheld that information which could be interpreted as aiding and abetting. Some years in prison should teach you a lesson.” Then his eyes turned ice-cold again, and he gave his full attention to John again, “Such a pity for your daughter.”

John’s mind started to race until he felt dizzy. Farnsworth was right. They hadn’t even tried to hinder Mary from escape and that could be easily interpreted as aiding and abetting for which they could be sentenced for at least a year in prison. That would give Farnsworth free rein to get to Emma. What would happen with his daughter when there was no-one who could take care of her? The threat formed a lump in his throat and caught his breath for a moment, “Sherlock?” It was a plea. They were pinned to the wall and he had no idea how they could solve this fiasco.

“The memory stick,” Farnsworth held his open hand to Sherlock, “Please.”

Blinking several times, Sherlock was at a loss himself. He hadn’t underestimated Farnsworth but he had hoped so much he would make him confess. “I don’t have it here.” He voice was hoarse, and his mouth was too dry.

“You came here for a deal without your prize?” The Lord chuckled amused, yet his eyes sparkled full of rage, “Just to make my point clear, I am willing to hand Miss Morstan over to the police as long as she doesn’t come up with the idea of trying to fight back and escape.”

“Sherlock?” There was that question from John again for which Sherlock didn’t have an answer. He was dumbfounded in the face of his defeat. Farnsworth never had the intention to release Mary. He would never leave John and Emma in peace. He had lived this life for over twenty years without being caught, and even now Sherlock couldn’t nail him down.

Slowly Sherlock forced his legs to move, and he circled the couch to stand beside John. All the time he had felt the heat radiating from John behind him, and his body had literally screamed for a touch of his hands on his shoulders to give him strength. But with Mary as a pressure point tossed in, Farnsworth had gotten them completely off-guard. She was the only component where John couldn’t make any coherent decision. So it was up to Sherlock to decide the next step, empty eyes starting to focus at the solution.

A buzz from Farnsworth mobile interrupted the silence in the room. Frowning at the display, he seemed to hesitate first but then indicated by waving a finger for his guests to wait a moment.

John’s eyes were glued to the television at the wall where Mary was strapped to the chair. There was a thin thread of blood running from her nose and covered her lips. “Sherlock, do we have a plan?” He asked without looking at his friend, clenching his jaw. But Sherlock could barely shake his head for a _No_. His eyes were dragged from Farnsworth to John, from sharp and hateful to soft and sad. His look conveyed an unspoken apology for failing John, his lips wavering with the mute words. _Caring is a disadvantage_ and _love is a far more vicious motivator_ …

“Yes?” Farnsworth voice was calm when he answered the call. Through the echo of the Lord’s outer ear Sherlock could hear that one of his security guards explained that the British secret service forced entry to the company’s building and that they were on their way to Farnsworth’s office. The Lord chuckled in amusement, “That’s okay,” he replied to his concerned employee who had let the visitors pass without any further security check, “I’m fine. They’re harmless.”

“Oh, do your research,” a deep baritone voice boomed suddenly across the room and called the Lord’s attention. Sherlock’s hand had stroked reassuringly John’s back until his hand found the pistol grip protruding at John’s waistband. With a firm jerk he freed the Sig Sauer P226. “I am all but harmless, Farnsworth.” Wielding the gun to aim at the Lord with an outstretched arm, he explained his self, “I am a high-functioning sociopath.”

And then his index finger curled firmly around the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to mention that the ‘borrowed’ sentences or catchphrases from the original in this chapter are completely intentional and will soon answer my purposes of this story ;)


	35. Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John need to face the truth after the murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

Everything went by in a split second – Sherlock grabbing John’s gun, and while John didn’t understand what had happened in the first instance it had been already too late to stop his friend from doing such a horrible mistake. The shot echoed from the high walls, and made his ears ring, feeling disorientated at first.

Through his tunnel view he followed the direction of Sherlock’s outstretched arm, and saw Farnsworth tumbling backwards. On the forehead of the businessman was just a small red dot visible but John knew that half of his skull at the back of his head was gone, decorating the black marble floor with blood splatter and cerebral matter.

“Jesus.” He heard himself breathe, raising his arms helplessly as if he wanted to grab his head and shake it to see if the vision would blur and turn out to be a hallucination. But he knew that this was nonsense; Sherlock had just shot Lord Dorian Farnsworth.

His mind raced while he still stood there without moving, his hand gripping tightly the gun. He stood in the only room of his mind palace which he treasured most, which wasn’t only built for knowledge to rely on if need be. No. It was built to preserve his emotions – it was John’s room. The man with the honey colored hair and with a thing for jumpers stood at the far end of the room, looking appalled at his friend, and Sherlock could feel the cracks at the wood paneling of the walls. A deafening bang shattered the window glasses, shards sparkling in the room as they whirled around and from the shelves flew the books John so dearly loved to read. They weren’t just whipped off the shelves but also completely torn apart until the tiny scraps of paper swirled up like snowflakes. He wanted to reach for John but the room got larger and larger, until several hundred yards lay between them, and all he could see through the bleary vision of his eyes was his outstretched arm with the Sig still in his hand, pointing at John in the far distance. He had hoped so much that this would have been avoidable. But he had met his match. For John and Emma’s safety, and even for Mary’s life he had made that decision. Mary as a hostage was the final straw. That is why John would never have been able to make this decision. Mary’s life was still at stake but without any further instructions by his employer the other assassin who held her captive would probably leave her.

The big office became suddenly small, very small, too small and Sherlock’s breath was caught in his throat. He felt as if he would suffocate when the truth of his act crushed upon him. He realized that he had held his breath, and with a jolt he sucked the needed oxygen deeply into his lungs, as his mind slowed down and started to form coherent thoughts again. At the same time he also noticed the heavy metal still lingering in his hand. Wincing he let the gun fall to the floor; the sharp edge of the muzzle making the flawless marble chip a bit.

They heard footsteps coming from the elevator, an impending clicking on the stone floor, and just a few seconds later the office was stormed with black-clad men, pointing their rifles at Sherlock and John. “Get away from me, John.” He turned to look at his friend. “Stay well back.” Sherlock’s voice was strong and steady despite of his shattered mind. They were in a room with one dead man, shot, and the weapon lay on the floor to Sherlock’s feet. One wrong move and they would follow Farnsworth into the land of oblivion. John had nothing to do with the murder, and Sherlock drew every attention to himself. Slowly they raised their arms over their heads to indicate their surrender.

Sherlock realized that those masked riflemen were Mycroft’s men. He must have sent them when his little brother ended the call. Even though the glass front was built of massive thick glass they felt the helicopter drawing near, the rotor blades cutting the wind and making a distinctive deafening drone which even vibrated in their chests. What a simile to John’s shattered room in his mind palace but only here the glass window wouldn’t burst into tiny shards. This was the hard reality with a stable façade around them, no fragile walls built upon fragile emotions. He could see his older brother, looking aghast at the scene and yelling at the speaker of his helmet.

The riflemen froze at the command through their ear-plugs, and Sherlock knew that Mycroft had been shouting orders not to shoot his little brother. “Freeze!” One man shouted, and angry little red dots marked their target if Sherlock wouldn’t oblige the warning.

In his mind palace he had started to run after John but it seemed the faster he ran the longer would grow the room. Flying around glass shards were cutting the skin of his face and hands, the gun long slipped from his grasp. But deep inside he knew he would never catch up with John. Then he stumbled over the dead body of Farnsworth, falling down to with shards and scraps covered ground. The turquoise eyes stared into nothing as he realized that darkness was slowly closing around them. He backed away from the corpse until his back hit a splintered wall, the sharp remnants tearing his jacket open and stabbing his flesh. Ignoring the pain, he propped his elbows on his bent knees, his hands interlacing behind the back of his head as he realized that he would never reach John again.

***

Three days had past, and John still didn’t know what had happened to Sherlock after his arrest. All he knew was that his friend hadn’t been sent to prison. He had asked Lestrade but the DI shook his head very well aware of the interference of Mycroft Holmes.

“There is no prison in which we could incarcerate Sherlock Holmes without causing a riot on a daily basis.” Lestrade had grimaced after John’s interrogation. “We can’t guarantee his safety. Too many inmates who’re there because of him.” The only fact the DI knew was that seemingly Sherlock hadn’t denied the murder.

When John had come home with Emma, he needed to explain the short version to Mrs. Hudson. The landlady was distressed and offered her help whenever John was in the need of it. In the evening he paced the flat back and forth. No-one had called him, neither Mycroft, nor Lestrade, and above all no call from Sherlock. Wasn’t he allowed to make one phone call like in the movies?

He had poured a tumbler with Scotch – he needed something strong to burn the nausea in his stomach away. When he realized that no-one would call, he slumped to his armchair in despair, scrubbing a hand over his face. If Sherlock confessed his murder, he would most certainly sentenced to many years if not his whole life in prison. What would happen then to John and Emma? What would happen to Sherlock? Lestrade’s words still echoed in his head that he would have too many enemies in prison.

The despair crept up his spine, making him restless like a wild animal in captivity. Looking around he saw their flat abandoned like they had left it in the morning as if nothing had happened – papers lay across the desk, newspapers covered the coffee table, even the dishes of breakfast rested in the sink unwashed. All of the sudden he got up again, feeling the oppressive density of the flat closing around him, like the fear engulfing his mind as if it would strangling him; a hot and pulsing weight on his chest. If he didn’t do anything now, he would burst into tiny pieces, broken and alone again. Scooping up his mobile from the small table, he dialed the only number of the person who could tell him what had happened to Sherlock now. Lestrade had told him that Sherlock wasn’t in his custody, so there was just him.

“Mycroft?” John’s voice felt hoarse.

He heard a sigh on the other end of the line, “John.”

Mycroft must have awaited this call, and John didn’t leave him enough room to take the lead of the call, “Where’s Sherlock?”

Another heavy sigh escaped his friend’s older brother. Surely this wasn’t easy for him as well. “I’m sorry, John, but I’m not allowed to tell you his whereabouts right now.”

“What?” Hot anger flushed his body, and he felt the crimson painting his ears.

“I understand your irritation, John, but as a matter of fact Sherlock has murdered a British politician, and we want to handle this matter as discreetly as possible.”

“Farnsworth has threatened our lives, you know that very well.” John’s voice got to a level of a low growl, gritting his teeth.

“Yet it was murder, John.” Mycroft pointed out in an attempt to reason Sherlock’s friend. “I am really sorry but you have to be patient. I’ll call you when there is made a decision. Goodnight.” And without waiting for any reaction, Mycroft ended the call, and John stared incredulously at his mobile for a while.

Mycroft had made a valid point. It was murder, and involuntarily his thoughts were dragged to Mary; Mary, who had also killed. John himself had accused her of vigilantism as an excuse for her murders. Wouldn’t it be now the same with Sherlock? Farnsworth had threatened them. It was as if he had pointed a gun at their temples. He shook his confused head. No. Not exactly the same. Sherlock’s motive was his love to protect Emma and John.

When they had scoured the basement for his ex-wife, they hadn’t found Mary or her captor. Seemingly both escaped unharmed because the room didn’t betray any clues for a fight, and above all no corpse. So all the people Sherlock wanted to protect were safe now.

He had put the balls of his thumbs into his eye sockets, pressing hard until his saw white stars sparkling in the darkness. Behind his eyes a dull ache blurred his thinking, and he felt thin threads of salty water picking its way through the pressure of his hands.

The days were coming and going, and John just functioned. As much as he wanted to stay in bed all day, cuddling in the duvet of Sherlock, smelling him and missing his warmth, he needed to get up in the morning. For Emma, he needed to get out of his lethargy, he needed to smile, he needed to play with her; Emma, who should have been raised by Sherlock, too. And there it was again that choking feeling which he wasn’t been able to swallow; this all remembered him of losing Sherlock when he jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s. How should he be able to survive this again?

Every evening he had sprawled onto the sofa when Emma was in her cot sleeping. He had watched the news in hope to see anything of Sherlock but Mycroft did a bang-up job. Only once the news mentioned the murder of Lord Dorian Farnsworth, and seemingly the murderer was still on the run. All the time John thought about what would happen to Sherlock now. Would Mycroft’s influence set him free?

In the evening of the third day, a rap of wood on wood got him out of his shuttered mind. “John?” The door opened, and he saw Mycroft standing in the door his umbrella still raised for the knock.

John blinked several times, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he would be dreaming, then he narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “Mycroft?” Why was he here? Had something happened? Did they come to a conclusion?

The tall man in his black pinstripe suit stepped into the living room, immediately scanning the flat and making his own deductions. Of course John was in a desperate state, as was Mycroft. For the first time since he became acquainted with him, he observed dark shadows under the eyes of Mycroft Holmes. Probably he could run the British government without blinking an eye but having his little brother in trouble made the otherwise composed man looking utterly tired and sad.

“What’s with Sherlock?” He got up from the couch, finally able to sort his thoughts, getting nervous in anticipation of the answer.

There was a flicker of a worried expression in Mycroft’s features but as soon as it was visible it was gone again. “He’s fine,” he replied, putting his umbrella firmly to the floor, bracing his weight on it. He tried to seem relaxed but John could see the tension in the lanky man. “I’m here to announce that his sentence was determined.”

At the remark of a sentence tensed John, squaring his shoulders, his left hand flexing, afraid of what Mycroft would say next. He lifted his chin defiantly, “What sentence?” His mouth felt dry, and he got the feeling that his tongue was glued to his palate.

“He’ll be sent off to a mission in Eastern Europe, instead of being sent to prison.” Mycroft clenched his jaws, as if he didn’t like that idea at all.

John’s intermittent tremor let his left hand clench a fist, digging his fingernails hard into the heel of his hand. “That’s not fair.” He almost shouted angrily, glowering at the older Holmes. “Farnsworth was literally putting an invisible gun to our chests, and Sherlock acted on self-defense. You know that very well.”

Mycroft sighed. Of course he knew. But they didn’t have any evidence against Farnsworth. “Lord Dorian Farnsworth was a very powerful man, and against your presumption he had many friends among politicians and businessmen. We can’t let this murder be unatoned, John.” Putting his weigh onto his other leg, he lifted his umbrella, “Anyway, I am not here to argue with you about his sentence. I’m here to explain that I pulled some strings, so he can be with you until his must leave.” He raised an eyebrow in expectation of a thank-you.

This made John speechless and baffled, and since he wasn’t going to say anything, Mycroft decided to leave again. At the door he seemed to struggle with himself, putting a hand at the doorframe, his back still to John, “I am really sorry, John.” He took a deep intake of breath, “There’ll be guards at any possible exit. He’ll be picked up tomorrow morning at seven o’clock sharp.”

Then he headed down the stairs, receding footsteps indicating that he almost had reached the front door, when suddenly a thought jolted through John’s head, “Wait! How long…” But he couldn’t finish the sentence. Mycroft was already gone.

John went back to the sofa, lounging onto it, his arms propped onto his knees and his face dug into his broad hands. He felt helpless and full of despair. Rather to send Sherlock to prison they had decided to send him on a mission far away? Was that a decision Sherlock himself had made? Would he have decided yet again to leave John alone?

It was a selfish decision, John concluded. Like this, once again his very own wishes were meaningless as it seemed. In a prison he would have had the possibility to visit Sherlock, at least to see him, to touch him, to remind himself that he would be still real and no distant dream. But sent off, they had taken that again from him. Anger slowly crept up his spine, anger towards Mycroft, anger towards the dead Farnsworth, anger towards Sherlock.

“Hello John,” the deep baritone barely a shy whisper.

Lifting his head, John saw the man standing in the door, not actually knowing if he would be welcomed or not to his own home. Like Mycroft, Sherlock looked tired and distressed. No wonder. The last three days must have been long days for him, too.

He got slowly up to his feet, padding across the room, closing the distance between them which had lingered far too long for the past days. All he wanted was to rest his aching head onto the chest of his friend, feeling his strong arms circling around his shoulders and holding him.

Instead, John punched him into the face.


	36. Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John spend their last night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos :) 
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

The punch hadn’t been hard and barely left a pink mark at Sherlock’s left cheekbone. John had used his right hand, not his dominant hand for the blow. Somehow, John’s sub consciousness prevented Sherlock from a real punch. Yet he held his cheek, his look hurt but defiant.

“It’s always _your_ way, isn’t it?” John shouted angrily, the accrued emotions of the past days finding a voice eventually. His heart pounded heavily in his chest, impulses of disappointment rushing through his veins because Sherlock didn’t reply, neither physically nor mentally. There were only those sad eyes locking with John’s furious steel blue. “You of all the people, act in the heat of the moment.” He stepped back from his friend to have a better all over look at Sherlock. He wore new clothes, probably provided by Mycroft – a black two-piece suit with a matching black button-down shirt. Only his hair was slightly tousled because of his missing hair products. John threw his hands helplessly in the air, “Haven’t you thought about at least ten possibilities to find a way out of that fiasco?” Sherlock always had several plans in his mind.

“I have.” He replied calmly but his voice betrayed an edge of hurt.

John looked surprised in a mocking gesture, shrugging his shoulders in a way of _Enlighten me_.

“I had two possibilities,” Sherlock began, “When the first didn’t work out, there remained only the second.”

His features slipped literally from John’s face when realization struck him. “You’ve planned the murder?” He asked incredulously.

Sherlock’s lips were pressed to a thin line, and he averted his eyes. His otherwise lively demeanor had vanished, and it left only a shadow of his former self. He nodded eventually, “It was the only possible solution to save you and Emma.”

Of course John knew that already but refused to admit the terrible truth to himself stubbornly, “Yet there would have been other ways.” He whispered in despair, his voice breaking. “Now we all have to suffer the consequences.” Looking away, he blinked furiously not allowing the tears to find their way.

Sherlock’s eyes strayed helplessly across the floor. That’s why he never wanted to get involved with emotions. They were so irritating. He got the feeling to choke on the words, he couldn’t bring forward. Comfort wasn’t his area at all, especially when he himself was in desperate need of it. He had told John, that his only motivation for the murder had been John’s and Emma’s safety but that was only the half-truth. For several days before, he had contemplated how he could solve that case but the answer just hit him when Koizumi abducted Emma. He had shot Farnsworth mainly to force a separation between John and him to prevent further such incidents; he had decided to leave John, so his friend could live a normal life. Tears stung to his eyes at the truth of his act which he could never tell John.

Observing the own despair of his friend, John’s anger softened slightly. Sherlock was rubbing his palms nervously at the sides of his thighs. Closing the gap between them again, John took one nervous cold hand in his own warm hand. “Mycroft said you’ll be send away on a mission. For how long?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the imminent lie, but after a second he composed himself again and looked neutral. “Six months, my brother estimates.” He paused shortly, swallowing the lump off his throat that after those six months Sherlock would probably never come back anymore. “He’s never wrong.”

John was oblivious to the lie. “Six months,” he repeated, weighing the words on his tongue. “That’s not so bad, isn’t it?” There was a faint hint of hope hidden in that question. A vague smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips as he realized that John actually believed him. He wanted to see him one last time, he had told Mycroft. And then he wanted to see him happy and full of hope, even if that would mean another lie, another break of their mutual promise. It made his heart clench because it was a complete egoistic decision. Sherlock wanted to have some happy memories which he could rely on when he was alone again, and a tiny voice in his head whispered despite his brother’s estimation that he could return once the mission was accomplished; that they could return to this very moment to have their domestic bliss – loving each other, raising Emma together, working on cases.

He closed the last inches between them, and pressed himself against John, cupping his face in one hand and leaning his brow against his friend’s. “I love you.” Those three words meant the world to him right now. He had written them once as a text message, and John hadn’t answered to them. Even though they were sent as a text message, not spoken, it didn’t mean that they were of lesser relevance. He had been just too much a coward than to speak them out aloud. His heart pounded in his ears, waiting for any reaction by John. He knew by now that John loved him, too, but he wanted a spoken confirmation, a treasure for his mind palace – a precious memory, so if he was arrested, injured or tortured during his undercover mission, that he could go to that special place of his mind palace to lock himself away from the gruesome real world into that little room which always remained there for John.

He dipped his head a bit further, feeling John’s breath tickle at his own lips, waiting for an answer by his friend but John was simply to astonished to articulate any coherent words. So he stole that breath and brushed his lips against John’s. Parting his lips slightly in an invitation, Sherlock licked his way along the pink sensitive flesh and slid his tongue past John’s lips, melting their tongues in one desperate kiss.

John tilted his head a bit to grant Sherlock better access. He still held Sherlock’s left hand, and in encouragement he put it around his waist to the small of his back. He couldn’t answer in words right now but he could answer in body language. Then his hand wandered upwards to Sherlock’s neck, raking through the soft hairs at his nape, and pulling him even more down, moving the desperate kiss into a tender caress.

While John played with the curls of his hairs, Sherlock’s cupping fingers trailed softly down John’s cheek to his jaw, feeling faint stubbles. His eyes were heavy-lidded but half-open while John’s eyes were shut, only his eyelashes fluttering at the sensation of their dancing tongues. But Sherlock wanted to see his love, he wanted to memorize each inch of his skin. It was strange but he barely remembered John's expressions, his features from the night in Brighton. All he remembered was how he tasted, how he smelled, how it had felt when his mouth or his fingers had touched him or what it did to his body when he brought him closer to the edge of sweet waves exploding in warm impulses over his whole body. It was mainly the feeling he remembered not the visible evidence, and he was determined to add that missing piece to his mind palace.

His hand moved to John’s throat, feeling the Adam’s apple bob up and down while he curled his palm around the column of his neck, stroking gently to the nape with its well-trimmed hairline. Increasing the pressure, Sherlock sucked deliberately at John’s bottom lip, speaking of more urgency as the want built up slowly. Butterflies prickled the inside of his belly, making his arousal palpable.

John moaned silently into Sherlock’s mouth, “Christ.” But as soon as the word was spoken and one desperate intake of breath was sucked, their mouths found each other again, tongues stroking while Sherlock sucked at the tip.

His hand had dropped between John’s shoulder blades, the fabric of John’s checkered shirt obscuring the sensitive touch of hot skin on skin, and suddenly he just wanted to rip that cloth off his love. Instead he pulled himself together and restrained his frenzy to let his hand wander further southward, tracing the small notches of John’s spine beneath the shirt. Eventually his scrutinizing hand met his other one at the small of John’s back, their thumbs stroking gently his flanks. In tacit consent both hands slid past the hard border of John’s waistband, the coarse fabric of his jeans a sharp contrast to the soft shirt. Splaying his fingers, he cupped John’s buttocks to draw him even closer, if that would have been possible. He felt as if he wanted to melt with his love, be one, be complete, so afraid of losing him again.

He closed his eyes eventually, stopping those silly emerging tears from rolling down his cheeks. John shouldn’t see his despair, he wasn’t allowed; otherwise he would get suspicious. No. He would focus on the here and now, for the sake of both of them.

John’s own hands couldn’t stay idle either. While one hand enjoyed the soft texture of curls springing off his fingers, the other one stroked firmly with splayed fingers over Sherlock’s chest. Feeling the exquisite fabric under his fingers, an additional touch of protruding skin beneath the cloth made his fingertips tingle in anticipation. He let his hand glide beneath the jacket, moved it to Sherlock’s shoulder and made it fall from one shoulder and then the other, never leaving his mouth, never allowing any loss of touch.

While John sucked deliberately at his bottom lip, Sherlock let go of John’s buttocks to shrug out of his jacket. Meanwhile, John’s fingers had eagerly returned to Sherlock’s front, undoing button by button of his black shirt; the pallor of his chest visible inch by inch, giving quite a contrast. It was an excruciating pain of anticipation, and a sultry groan escaped Sherlock’s lips. At the end John tugged gently at the shirt to free the tail from the waistband’s trousers, and mimicked the movement with the jacket before. Only this time Sherlock couldn’t shrug the shirt easily off. John had forgotten the buttons at the cuffs, and Sherlock was simply trapped.

An annoyed grunt, made John chuckled against Sherlock’s mouth. The kiss was broken but tenderness remained nonetheless as John gently trailed his hands along Sherlock’s right arm, cupping his elbow and pulling it to him to carefully put the button through the whole. All the while, Sherlock looked in wonder at John’s face, a mix of devotion, caring and sadness. He brought his freed hand up to John’s face, tracing the tiny wrinkles around his eyes with one finger and realized that behind the façade John was worrying. He made it up for Sherlock, as did Sherlock for John.

“I love you.”

This time Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer, he just dipped his head and recaptured John’s mouth. By the time the second cuff was opened, Sherlock could finally shrug out of his shirt. The kiss, a tender caress moved on to an urgent need, trying to mute the pressing feeling on his chest which threatened to crush his heart, and John followed willingly every movement, every stroke, every suck in that mutual dance.

While John’s arms circled Sherlock’s hip, and his hands stroked their ways upward his back, Sherlock mimicked John’s actions of before and opened button by button of his shirt. Save that John always wore a t-shirt beneath, “Oh for God’s sake, John,” Sherlock huffed, “We have twenty five degrees today.” John laughed at the annoyance, he could even provoke while they were making love.

In one swift move Sherlock pulled the cotton fabric over John’s head, leaving his blond-gray hair in a disheveled state. Sherlock smiled smugly at the effect he achieved on the otherwise neat man, before he returned to his lips, pressing their naked torsos against each other and enjoying the warmth despite the stuffiness in the flat.

Tiny beads of sweat began to glue them together in their embrace. Throwing his head back into his neck, Sherlock gasped, gulping hot air into his lungs, while John relished the exposed skin of his throat. His kisses became urgently as he nibbled, licked and sucked along the hard line of the bone down to the soft flesh of Sherlock’s neck, evoking a deep-throated groan from him.

John felt the knees of Sherlock buckle at the overwhelming sensation. “Bed.” It wasn’t a question but a suggestion applied with a smile against his ear.

“Definitely,” rasped Sherlock, stepping back a bit and taking eagerly John’s hand to guide him to their bedroom.

Crossing the kitchen, Sherlock noticed the abandoned tumbler on the kitchen table, the golden liquid still lingering in the glass. The loss of the sudden closeness, and the visible evidence of his friend’s distress dragged him involuntarily back to their situation. A pang of pain flashing in his chest made him slow down slightly until he stopped in front of their bed. Surely John had observed his hesitation, as he stepped closer, snaking his arms from behind around Sherlock’s waist, leaning his brow between his shoulder blades. “You know,” his voice was hoarse all of the sudden, “We don’t have to do this.”

For a moment he weighed John’s words. Why were feelings so distractive, so deceptive? Once they were in full bloom they were unstoppable. Why couldn’t he just blank out the sadness and enjoy the moment of bliss? Or were they interwoven; the one emotion fueling the other? He raised his hands, curling his fingers around John’s strong arms, leaning into the reassuring touch, “No,” he replied determined, “I want you.”

They just stood there for a little while longer, feeling each other’s even breaths before Sherlock took John’s hand off his chest and turned around, looking into that dark ocean of John’s eyes. His fingers had wandered to John’s belt to unbuckle it, his knuckles brushing against his hidden hardness, slightly softened at their little intermezzo while John’s palm stroked over the planes of Sherlock’s abdominal muscles , feeling them flexing under his searching fingers. His hand moved further up to his chest to snake its way around his neck and to pull him down on him again. Sherlock obliged and bent forward to meet John’s lips.

Without breaking the kiss, Sherlock fumbled with the belt, then opened the button and unzipped the fly. Beneath the coarse fabric he felt John’s burgeoning arousal in anticipation of any touch. Hooking his thumbs behind the waistband of his jeans and boxers, he tugged gently to push the clothes down his legs, leaving his love’s lips for the moment. When he came up again, he took his time to put some fervent kisses at John’s navel, at his sternum and further up at the hollow between his collarbones to finally melt his tongue with John’s again. His index finger trailed the opposite direction down over his chest across the soft flesh of his abdominal muscles to the base of his belly and through coarse hair to the tip of his now rigid erection.

John gasped, “Teaser.” A satisfied smile curled around Sherlock’s lips when he realized that he was doing at least something right. John’s restraint was shattered to pieces, and he hooked his own fingers behind Sherlock’s waistband, yanking him close. His lips closed around the sensitive bud of Sherlock’s nipple, and sucked sharply, provoking a deep moan from his love, while he undid the button and unzipped the fly. He didn’t wait for the trousers to pool around Sherlock’s feet but curled his fingers around his hard cock in a firm grip.

Sherlock’s eyes were blown wide, his pale blue almost gone. Involuntarily he thrust into his hand, bringing his lips down to John’s ear, “Show-off,” his sultry baritone rumbled, echoing in pulsing vibrations through John’s body, while his eyes laughed affectionately at the innuendo.

Stepping out of the loose pool of his trousers and pants, he retreated slightly, leaving the touch of John’s warm hand. Pulling off his socks, Sherlock climbed onto the bed, the soft mattress dipping with his weight. He hugged a pillow and eased himself flat onto his stomach, hoping to convey his meaning to John. He was simply too afraid of looking into the eyes of his love in this most vulnerable and overwhelming moment. He was simply too afraid of not being able to maintain his mask, his lie in the moment he would come undone.

John had gotten rid of his clothes as well, and Sherlock felt the mattress dip beside him as John covered his body over Sherlock’s; a tingling sensation of warmth, fluttering fingertips brushing tentatively along his flanks, sending electrifying impulses to his inner core. John lowered himself onto Sherlock, his cock prodding against the small of his friend’s back, his mouth coming down for a whisper to his ear, “Turn around, love.” Sherlock’s eyes widened at the sudden endearment – an endearment which had slipped so easily from John’s lips that he hadn’t even realized it – his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, “If I can’t see you for the next six months let me at least see you now.”

He loosened Sherlock’s tight grip at the pillow, guiding his hand to his mouth for a tender kiss at the knuckles. Then he rolled on his side to make room for Sherlock to roll on his back, helping him by tugging gently at his hand. Of course Sherlock couldn’t deny John’s wish, even though his mind panicked, feeling as if he would lose the firm ground beneath his feet which should give him steadiness and balance. He braced himself for the warm and attentive eyes of John, as he recaptured his former position and rolled over Sherlock, his elbows propped at each side of his face, stroking gently some unruly curls off his face and ears.

At the overwhelming sensation of John’s erection brushing at his own hard cock, Sherlock arched his back unabashedly, spreading his long legs a bit and curling them around John’s own legs. The immediate reaction of John was a slight roll of his hips against Sherlock’s crotch while they moaned into each other’s mouths for another kiss.

Relishing the moment of their foreplay for a while, John suddenly broke away, looking pensively at Sherlock who immediately deduced John’s thoughts, “Topmost drawer of my nightstand.”

John raised his eyebrows in amazement, always astonished at his friend’s incredible skill of reading one’s mind. Shifting his weight, he opened the drawer and retrieved the bottle of lubricant and a foil pack of condoms.

Looking down at the condoms in his hand, he stopped short, sitting on his knees between Sherlock’s legs. “Um…” he began hesitantly, “Do you want me… um…” he gestured with his fingers to change their position, “… or do you want to…” He trailed off, averting his eyes.

Sherlock creased his forehead at the sudden shyness of John, firstly not knowing what he meant until a surprised _Oh_ formed his lips mutely. Then a mischievous grin tugged at his lips, “It’s called ‘penetrate’.” He said nonchalantly while he enjoyed the blushing in John’s face.

“Yes, I know that,” countered John slightly annoyed at his own incapability of saying such things due to his newly found bashfulness, “I’m a bloody doctor, remember?” Chewing his bottom lip, he added almost in a sulky whisper, “This is just new to me, too.”

Sherlock features softened at the revelation of John’s reticence but he acknowledged what John wanted to give him. Yet… “No.”

John looked up confused, “Hmm?”

“To your incomplete question,” Sherlock explained quietly, his hands stroking John’s thighs tentatively upwards. “No, not yet,” he replied again, his hands now resting on the crests of John’s hipbones, “I mean… not this time.” He didn’t want to take the lead, all he wanted was to feel, taste and see John.

John nodded once then ripped the foil open and unrolled the thin latex on his straining erection. Bending forward he retrieved a pillow from the headboard and put it under the small of Sherlock’s back. Both their breathing had increased at the anticipation. Just the little touches of John’s knuckles while he placed that pillow beneath him sent tingles through his body, and Sherlock squirmed slightly. Leaning down again, John closed his lips over Sherlock’s, while his hand fumbled with the bottle. With a click the cap was gone, and he put a fair amount of the translucent fluid into his palm.

Leaving the bottle abandoned somewhere on the sheets, he let his hand wander down Sherlock’s body, trailing a finger along the firm muscles of his abdomen to his pelvis and further down to the curve of the base of his cock which evoked a gasp followed by a deep-throated moan. Yet the finger didn’t stop and moved further downwards over the soft scrotal sac and perineum until he found the entrance. Spreading the lubricant from his palm to coat his fingers, John slowly drew little circles while Sherlock braced his feet firmly onto the mattress, fidgeting slightly at the touch.

Carefully John pressed a slick finger into the taut muscle, and Sherlock bit his bottom lip at the intrusion. A tension rippled through his body and pressed tightly around John’s finger. “You have to relax, love,” John’s mouth had moved to his ear, nibbling at the lobe tenderly. Sherlock realized that he wanted this so much that his body didn’t relent and tensed at each touch rather than to feel at ease and enjoy the moment; again those damn irrational feelings were taking over, he cursed mentally. He took a deep intake of breath and let go of his lip, while John brushed against the soft tissue of his prostate. A groan and an involuntary jerk with his hip set his muscles loose, and John slipped another finger into Sherlock, stretching him gently while continuing to brush his prostate.

“John, please,” he clutched desperately at his love. “You.” He moaned, feeling the want increasing with each stroke of John’s fingers, a sweet cramp in his lower body.

Withdrawing his fingers, John settled back to sit on his knees again. He positioned himself between Sherlock’s legs, reaching for the lubricant one more time to spread the slick fluid on his shaft, curling his finger around and stroking to the tip.

He rested one hand on Sherlock’s bent knee, while the other guided his cock into Sherlock’s body, his resting hand suddenly grasping the knee for balance at the explosion of feelings. Sherlock, too, surprised at the expected intrusion darted his hands forward to John’s thighs, gripping hard, leaving angry red marks which would turn into little bruises by the end of the night. He threw his head into his neck, clenching his jaw. The first time he had expected pain but he had been surprised when there was none. At first it was rather an uncomfortable pressure into the body, hot friction of John’s cock as he stretched him. But it had not been pain. The pleasure just came when John was fully sheathed, and Sherlock got used to the feeling, careful movements back and forth brushing his prostate relentlessly.

It was the same now. When John was completely sunk into Sherlock’s body, he just waited a moment, releasing the hard grip on Sherlock’s knee to put a splayed sweaty hand onto his stomach as if he wanted to feel the connection. When their breaths evened out, John fidgeted slightly to adjust his position and began to move in short slow stabs. Sherlock’s eyes widened as each movement sent a shiver down his spine, rippling his whole body with goose bumps. His ribcage started to rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm when he felt the pleasure growing at the base of his belly, a pool full of tingling sensation sending flashes to every part of his body. Faintly he was aware of noises, gasping, panting, moaning until he realized that most of them escaped his mouth.

Pulling his legs tighter around John’s hip, he dug his heels into the small of John’s back while at the same time his hands left his thighs to tug at his shoulder. He wanted to feel John, all of John, his body pressed close to his own in this sweet dance towards their climaxes. When John obliged to close the hateful distance – which would be too soon very prominent in their lives – he snaked his arms beneath Sherlock’s shoulders, his hands coming up at each side of his neck and his fingers curling around the edge of his shoulders to hold him in a firm grasp. This prevented Sherlock to glide upwards with each thrust.

Their panting grew raggedly with each thrust. The additional friction of Sherlock’s cock trapped between their stomachs fueled his imminent climax. Then he remembered that he wanted to memorize not only what he felt but also what he saw but with John buried his face into the crook between his neck and shoulder, he couldn’t see anything but the ceiling. His hands stroked from the firm muscles of John’s back to his shoulders, gently pushing him up a few inches. John looked surprised but kept the rhythm as he locked his almost black eyes with Sherlock’s dark pools. Their ragged breaths mingled with each other. Every now and then John dipped his head for a fleeting kiss, and when he leant back Sherlock hungrily followed his movement in the want for more.

Then the rhythm grew frantically. John closed his eyes for a few seconds, eyelashes fluttering over his blown wide pupils. His breath was caught in his throat, as he tried to focus but failed, and Sherlock knew that he was fighting back his orgasm. Raising his hands to cup John’s face, he pulled him down for the final kiss, “Come for me.” And he felt the shudder break loose in John’s body as he thrust one more time hard into Sherlock. It was the last brush which brought Sherlock over the edge together with John, and he tossed his head back when a rumble bubbled up his throat released in a long moan, mixed with a curse of John. There were shudders followed by shudders, Sherlock arched his back into John while the other bowed his back at the sweet convulsions of his body, warm fluid gluing their bellies.

Slowly the waves of their mutual climax ebbed away, and John couldn’t trust his muscles anymore collapsing onto Sherlock, both men completely spent. Their ragged panting met at the rising and falling of their ribcages while their bellies bumped into each other uncoordinated.

“I love you.”

And a single tear rolled down Sherlock’s cheek while his hand cradled John’s head at his chest.


	37. Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John need to say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this will be the final chapter :) Please note that I don’t own “Sherlock” and any copyright infringement is completely unintended. I ‘borrowed’ sentences from the original in this chapter and used them in the context of this fan fiction, although they slightly differ.
> 
> I’m a high-functioning sociopath who tries to delve into the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson :P
> 
> And again, please forgive me my silly mistakes because English isn’t my first language.
> 
> If you want to catch up with me, you find me on Tumblr: http://nymeria578.tumblr.com/

They had lain there silently for quite a while, enjoying their mutual rhythm of the up and down of their breathing. John listened to the strong pounding heart beneath his ear, his cheek pressed firmly to Sherlock’s chest. The rapid thunder had ebbed slowly away and changed into a steady drum beat which John even felt against the skin of his face.

Sherlock’s music started to make him drowsy, encouraged by his circled strokes over his shoulder. Before he faded into a sweet exhausted slumber, he withdrew from Sherlock with a quiet groan and rolled onto his side, facing his lover. Sherlock followed his movement and drew closer to John until there was barely space between them, entwining their legs, his arm providing a pillow for John’s head. Through heavy-lidded eyes he watched how John’s features softened and relaxed as he succumbed to sleep. His own blinks grew each time longer until he couldn’t see John anymore, his mind merging with dreamless darkness.

It was that feeling when one closed his eyes in the night, and suddenly woke with a start just to realize the orange morning sun flooding the bedroom. Usually when he woke up, John needed at least ten minutes to compose himself and get rid of the last remnants of sleep clinging to his mind. But today it was different. He sat up with a start, a pressing feeling clenching his heart. He was alone.

A cursory look at the alarm clock reassured him that there was still time; Sherlock wouldn’t just left him without saying goodbye. Ten minutes until seven o’clock. When consciousness crawled back to his mind, he heard faint voices coming from the living room. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed quickly, scooping up his trousers to put them on, not sparing a thought about his boxers. In the bathroom he retrieved his terry robe from the overdoor hook and shrugged into it.

When he opened the door to enter the kitchen, he bumped into Sherlock’s chest, clad in the black suit with the black button-down shirt of the day before. He smelled of his shower gel and shampoo. How did John miss that Sherlock had gotten up and took a shower? A short flicker of a smile crossed Sherlock’s lips.

“I have to go now.” His otherwise rich baritone was barely a shadow of his former self, a hoarse whisper.

John’s eyes widened as panic took a tight grip on him. Why must he go now? Why hadn’t Sherlock woken him earlier? Why had he missed their precious time? “You still have time.” He blurted out, when he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Sherlock chuckled sadly, “Five minutes. The secret service’s always dead on time.”

“So, that’s it?” John asked incredulously, subtly shaking his head as if he denied the harsh truth.

Sherlock nodded once but raised his hands to cup John’s face. As much as he wanted to see John the last night to memorize his every features, as much he wanted to close his eyes now to seal himself off from his sad expression, his disappointment, his lost hope. Blindly he found John’s lips, brushing gently from the corner to his Cupid’s bow. Parting his lips slightly, he once again tasted John, sucking tentatively at his bottom lip.

“Mr. Holmes.” An unknown male voice sounded from the stairs impatiently.

Stepping back from John, Sherlock took a shaky intake of breath, his lips pressed to a thin line. “I really have to go now.” Averting his gaze, he crossed the kitchen and left to the right door for the staircase.

John felt still dizzy from the kiss, his mind inhibited by his emotions. Sherlock was leaving, he perceived by listening to the receding footsteps. “Wait…” he whispered, as if he was in a bad dream where he couldn’t shout if he needed to. It was as if his bare feet were glued to the floor, and he didn’t know what to do now. His heart thundered wildly in his chest, and his stomach clenched while impulses of nausea crept up his throat. He started to shake slightly at the reality of Sherlock’s farewell. Upstairs he heard faintly Emma waking up from the noises, a sweet babbling which soon would turn into a whimper. Sherlock couldn’t even say a proper goodbye to her.

Emma. It was the thought about her that loosened his feet eventually, and he darted mindlessly for the staircase, now shouting, “Wait!” But the front door had already been shut again. Taking two steps at a time, John almost tripped over his own feet. He yanked the door open and bumped again into a black suited chest. Only this time, it was Mycroft’s.

“John,” the older Holmes greeted.

Blinking several times to get the foolish tears out of his blurry view, he stepped back. “Mycroft, please,” he begged, “Just one minute.” John gestured with his hand for the black limousine leaving Baker Street, his face scrunching up in agony as he realized that the car was gone.

“At a word, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft eyed John with one raised eyebrow, addressing him formally to get his attention. “Inside,” he added, looking at the inappropriate clothing John was wearing for the streets.

Clutching his terry robe close, John followed Mycroft’s gesture to reenter 221B with slumped shoulders. Mutely he padded bare-footed back into the living room. Emma’s babbling slowly turned into whiney whimpers, and he knew before long he needed to go upstairs to soothe her, whereas his own mental state was quite emotionally shattered.

In the middle of the room which still smelled of Sherlock, John turned around to face the older Holmes, defeated but nonetheless with a lifted chin trying to save the rest of his dignity. “He didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to Emma.” He said, trying to glare reproachfully at Mycroft but he was too emotionally weakened than to make it a threat.

Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Sherlock has a plane to catch.” He knew that it wouldn’t make it better to give false hope to John but he wasn’t made of ice. He would give him a choice. Bracing his weight on his umbrella as if he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, he pursed his lips slightly. “If you want him to say goodbye to your daughter, I could delay the departure a bit.”

John’s red-rimmed eyes lightened up a little at the prospect, accompanied by tiny enthusiastic nods, “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Then you have ten minutes.” Mycroft raised his umbrella, “I wait downstairs.”

When Mycroft had left the flat, John’s mind started to race. Ignoring the little protests of Emma, he darted for the bathroom, at least to brush his teeth and comb his hair. Shrugging out of the terry robe, he went into the bedroom for fresh clothes. When he was halfway acceptable clad in blue jeans, shirt and a black jacket, he prepared a bottle for Emma. Then he climbed the stairs, already in his mind to just put her into a jacket and a footmuff for the baby seat. That would be enough for the moment, it was still eighteen degrees outside. He decided to feed her the formula in the car. Indeed he hoped secretly that she would spit some milk onto the expensive suit of Mycroft. He was still angry with the man. Sherlock had repeated countless times that Mycroft was the British government. Then why wasn’t he able to interfere? Why would he send off his little brother?

During the drive they didn’t talk and the only noises which broke the silence were Emma’s smacking lips at the nipple of the bottle. Mycroft just looked incredulously at the little girl, one eyebrow raised in his usual fashion.

Half an hour later they arrived at a private airfield, probably having run by the British government, John presumed when they passed the security check. There was no other airplane taking off or landing but at the far end of the tarmac he could see a Cessna Citation 650 waiting in the bright sun of another promising hot day.

Sherlock was already waiting at the stairs of the door to the plane. Obviously Mycroft hadn’t texted him that John had followed in Mycroft’s limousine. After he had unfastened the belt for the baby seat, he climbed out of the car, carefully balancing Emma in her seat, Sherlock’s expression seemed to falter for a moment before he composed himself again.

Stepping closer Sherlock’s eyes locked with Emma, a whole future he could have had, his lips pressed tightly together. A few paces away John stopped, looking expectantly at his friend. But what did he expect? There had been a reason Sherlock had almost fled the flat. People just didn’t say goodbye to friends when they knew they couldn’t promise to return.

Surrounded by Mycroft and his security guards, as well as the professionals for the flight, Sherlock took a deep intake of breath, hoping that his emotional state wouldn’t convey through his voice, “Since this is likely to be the last conversation for the next couple of months I’ll have with John Watson…” he dragged his gaze to Mycroft, “Would you mind if we took a moment?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow, but then jerked his head towards the side of the plane for the other people who granted John and Sherlock a moment of privacy.

John gripped the handle of the baby seat tightly, that his nails dug into his palms, leaving tiny red crescents in his skin. His heart thundered almost painfully in his chest that he got the feeling of choking on his own pulse, “You forgot to say goodbye to Emma.” John knew it was a feeble excuse to use Emma as a pretext but then he realized that Sherlock indeed hadn’t said his farewell at all.

A small smile curled around Sherlock’s lips, yet he closed his eyes for moment. John had put the baby seat to the ground, and Sherlock followed their little daughter and hunkered down in front of her. She was playing with her bottle, sucking and biting at the nipple. But when she noticed her dad, she dropped her impromptu toy, reaching for Sherlock’s hand who willingly gave her his thumb. Squeaking with glee, she squeezed the thumb and put it into her mouth. Sherlock felt the first tooth at her mandible and smiled, “Time for daddy to feed you real food.” He said affectionately but her steel blue eyes looked at him in incomprehension, nibbling at the thumb. When he retrieved it, she made a tiny protest almost bordering to a hiccup and his features grew wistful. “You take care of your daddy.” He whispered but John nonetheless heard the words, a heavy lump lingering in his throat. “Will you, sweetheart?” His voice a deep rumble broke at the endearment, he so loathed to use before Emma taught him otherwise. Of course she couldn’t answer yet, and when Sherlock didn’t say anything further or gave her back his thumb, she grabbed the empty bottle instead again.

His hand braced his right knee, and he slowly got up to face John again. His left cheek still betrayed the anger of John the night before. The cheekbone a fading pink made quite a contrast to the alabaster skin. John couldn’t stand to look into those pale blue eyes, and for a moment they stared awkwardly anywhere except at each other. Mentally John scolded at himself for being such a speechless idiot, “Actually,” he breathed, “I can’t think of a single thing to say.”

“No, neither can I,” Sherlock replied, his gaze set on his feet, his black leather shoes gleaming in the morning sun. All he wanted to do was to reach out, grab John at his shoulders and yank him into one last embrace but he was simply too afraid; too afraid that his emotions would take over his rational mind which he was so in desperate need to survive this moment. Today he would lose everything he held dear. Salty tears stung to his eyes.

He felt the heaviness of their last goodbye pressing firmly onto his shoulders, the moment where he had broken John’s heart for the first time. He had stood on the roof of St. Bart’s and had told another lie to his friend back then. The scenes seemed like a mirror image, only now he was quite certain of not being able to return this time. He couldn’t have the heart to tell John the truth. Like this he would have hope until the day Mycroft would tell him the truth; one last vengeance on his brother.

Suddenly John stepped closer, forcing Sherlock to look up at his eyes, “The game is over.” John almost whispered. He didn’t mean the end of their work. No, he knew the work, the cases would continue for Sherlock wherever his undercover mission would take him but he referred with this remark rather to himself. He would be left behind with his daughter for a normal, dull, boring life without Sherlock. He loved his daughter idolatrously, of course, but his life had two sides. One life for his daughter to show her the world, to bequeath her the virtues he cared so much about. And there was one life with and for Sherlock – the thrill of the chase while solving cases with this madman, and lately the man himself. Flexing his hand, John remembered how the touch of his smooth skin felt beneath his fingers.

“The game is never over,” he spoke as if it were a vow, “But there may be some new players now. It’s okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end.”

John creased his forehead not understanding, “What’s that?”

“It’s a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind,” He emphasized the metaphor, “This terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path.” Lifting his chin slightly, he looked into the distance with unfocused eyes, “It seeks out the unworthy,” His eyes wandered back to John, a hint of an amused reproach betraying his look, “And plucks them from the Earth. That was generally _me_.”

John narrowed his eyes, his look shifting shortly to Mycroft who chatted with the security men, “Nice!” His remark had an edge of reproach itself. He knew Mycroft now well enough to recognize that he didn’t hate his little brother but this seemed to have been his kind of education. Yet he felt the pang of loneliness hovering in his chest when he considered that Mycroft could have interfered with Sherlock’s sentence. It left a bitter aftertaste.

“He was a rubbish big brother.” Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose, and they both smiled for the first time of this day honestly at each other in mutual agreement at their common archenemy.

There was a short silence between them while they just relished the moment of delight but it was finally broken when John cleared his voice, his look set on Sherlock’s hands firmly clenched into fists. “Sherlock,” he began hoarsely, “There’s something I should say,” his eyes wandered slowly upwards to meet warm ice blue pools, “I… I’ve meant to say always and then never have.” Struggling for the words, he hesitated. All his life, he had been taught that love often involved betrayal; be it his sister who got a divorce and even sibling love didn’t prevent her from her alcohol abuse, or be it Mary who betrayed him with her whole persona. Even Sherlock, who had faked his own death and left John behind, broken and shattered.

“I love you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, his eyes glistening with tears, and he was biting the insides of his lips at John’s revelation. He took a shuddering intake of breath, nodding subtly, “I know.”

“Don’t you dare to die out there.” John’s voice got an edge of a warning, and suddenly Sherlock realized that he couldn’t fool his friend, that John already knew how dangerous this mission would be yet he had that unabated faith in Sherlock Holmes to solve any case. John sniffed, “Just… take care of yourself.”

Sherlock pressed his lips tightly together, then he uncurled his right fist and hold it out for John to take, “To the very best of times, John.” It was a formal farewell but he couldn’t bring himself to anything further.

John looked at his friend hand for a long time, refusing to believe that this was it but eventually he took Sherlock’s hand firmly and shook it. Relishing the warmth of the touch one last time, Sherlock squeezed it reassuringly before releasing it. Without any other gesture he turned around and walked away to get on board of the plane, never looking back because the storm of emotions in his chest was already enough to bear.

In the plane he chose a seat facing away from Mycroft, his men and therefore John outside. It didn’t take long and the engine started, setting the whole plane in vibration and marking an end to his life in London. Then the turbines revved up and made a deafening noise, indicating that the plane would start to roll over the tarmac every moment.

Sherlock fastened his seat belt, his right arm resting on the armrest fingers curled, his chin propped up on his knuckles. It was the hand John had touched, the tingling warmth still lingering. His lips barely brushed the skin of his fingers. One last kiss, and the tears he so bravely had held back, started to roll down his cheeks silently.

He could see how the ground receded and a cold distance between the plane and the earth gaped. Soon they would be over forty thousand feet, and nothing but the serpentines of streets would refer to mankind living down there. Dull.

Suddenly one of the crew members addressed him from behind, “Sir?” He held out a phone for Sherlock to take, “It’s your brother.”

Looking slightly irritated, he took the phone, “Mycroft?”

“Hello, little brother. How is the exile going?” His older brother sounded actually cheerful, and Sherlock frowned.

“I’ve only been gone four minutes.” In his current emotional state he hoped for the sake of his older brother that this wouldn’t be any bad joke.

“Well, I certainly hope you’ve learned your lesson. As it turns out, you’re needed.” Definitely that must be a bad joke, and Sherlock’s frown turned into an angry scowl.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He swore annoyed. “Make up your mind. Who needs me this time?” So it was no bad joke, and a flicker of hope flashed in his chest, a mental image of John drawing closer in that small room of his mind palace. A new crack ran along the wooden paneled walls but this time it didn’t speak of destruction but the room seemed to grow again, expanding to its former size of a library full of John – books rearranging again in its shelves, jumpers neatly folded in a closet, the abandoned cane at one corner of the big room.

Mycroft was quiet for a moment but with an exuberant sigh he replied eventually, “England.”

 

MISS ME!

 

                                                                                                                                                                            - End -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it. My personal HLV fix-it with all the players from the original still involved. I didn’t want to tag it above so I could hopefully surprise you in the end a bit. It was a tremendous fun to write this story and I hope you enjoyed it likewise.
> 
> I’m going to write a one chapter (standalone) sequel set three years later within the next one or two weeks. I just had that silly idea of an experiment gone wrong… *rubbinggleefullythehands*
> 
> And last but not least, thank you all so much for the kudos and lovely comments. Now that the story is finished I’d appreciate your opinion in regard to the whole story – was there something you particularly liked or disliked in the story as well as in the writing style. As an author I’m always interested in what you think.


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